UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

AT   LOS  ANGELES 


This  Edition  is  limited  to  204  sets  with  the  por- 
trait signed  by  the  author.  Printed  on  Ruisdael 
hand-made  paper  with  extra  illustrations. 

Nos.  i  to  25  with  a  number  of  the  illustrations 
signed  by  the  artists;  bound  in  half  crushed  levant. 

Nos.  26  to  204  bound  in  parchment  backs  and 
wood-brown  paper  sides. 


No.J5* 


THE  WORKS  OF 
DONALD  G.  MITCHELL 

VOLUME  II 


REVERIES  OF  A 
BACHELOR 

OPvA  BOOK  OF  THE   HEART 

BY 

IK  MARVEL 


"It  is  worth  the  labor— saith  PLOTINUS  — to  consider 
well  of  Love,  whether  it  be  a  God,  or  a  direll,  or  passion 
of  the  minde,  or  partly  God,  partly  divell,  partly  pas- 
sion." —  BURTON'S  ANATOMY  OF  MELANCHOLY, 
Part  III.,  Sec.  i. 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1907 


Copyright.  1850.  1863,  1878,  1883,  by 
DONALD  G.  MITCHELL 


Copyright,  1907,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


107 


TO 

ONE  AT  HOME 

IN  WHOM  ARE  MET  SO  MANY  OF  THE  GRACES 

AND  THE  VIRTUES  OF  WHICH  AS 

BACHELOR  I  DREAMED 


ORIGINAL  PREFACE 

THIS  book  is  neither  more  nor  less  than  it  pre- 
tends to  be :  it  is  a  collection  of  those  floating 
Reveries  which  have,  from  time  to  time,  drifted 
across  my  brain.  I  never  yet  met  with  a  bach- 
elor who  had  not  his  share  of  just  such  floating 
visions ;  and  the  only  difference  between  us  lies 
in  the  fact  that  I  have  tossed  them  from  me  in 
the  shape  of  a  Book. 

If  they  had  been  worked  over  with  more 
unity  of  design,  I  dare  say  I  might  have  made 
a  respectable  novel;  as  it  is,  I  have  chosen  the 
honester  way  of  setting  them  down  as  they 
came  seething  from  my  thought,  with  all  their 
crudities  and  contrasts,  uncovered. 

As  for  the  truth  that  is  in  them,  the  world 
may  believe  what  it  likes;  for  having  written 
to  humor  the  world,  it  would  be  hard  if  I 
should  curtail  any  of  its  privileges  of  judg- 
ment. I  should  think  there  was  as  much  truth 
in  them  as  in  most  Reveries. 

The  first  story  of  the  book  has  already  had 
some  publicity ;  and  the  criticisms  upon  it  have 
vii 


ORIGINAL  PREFACE 

amused  and  pleased  me.  One  honest  journalist 
avows  that  it  could  never  have  been  written  by 
a  bachelor.  I  thank  him  for  thinking  so  well 
of  me,  and  heartily  wish  that  his  thought  were 
as  true  as  it  is  kind. 

Yet  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  bachelors  are 
the  only  safe  and  secure  observers  of  all  the 
phases  of  married  life.  The  rest  of  the  world 
have  their  hobbies,  and  by  law,  as  well  as  by 
immemorial  custom,  are  reckoned  unfair  wit- 
nesses in  everything  relating  to  their  matrimo- 
nial affairs. 

Perhaps  I  ought  however  to  make  an  excep- 
tion in  favor  of  spinsters,  who,  like  us,  are  in- 
dependent spectators,  and  possess  just  that 
kind  of  indifference  to  the  marital  state  which 
makes  them  intrepid  in  their  observations,  and 
very  desirable  for— authorities. 

As  for  the  style  of  the  book,  I  have  nothing 
to  say  for  it,  except  to  refer  to  my  title.  These 
are  not  sermons,  nor  essays,  nor  criticisms; — 
they  are  only  Reveries.  And  if  the  reader 
should  stumble  upon  occasional  magniloquence, 
or  be  worried  with  a  little  too  much  of  senti- 
ment, pray  let  him  remember— that  I  am 
dreaming. 

But  while  I  say  this  in  the  hope  of  nicking 
off  the  wiry  edge  of  my  reader's  judgment,  I 


ORIGINAL  PREFACE 

shall  yet  stand  up  boldly  for  the  general  tone 
and  character  of  the  book.  If  there  is  bad 
feeling  in  it,  or  insincerity,  or  shallow  senti- 
ment, or  any  foolish  depth  of  affection  be- 
trayed,—I  am  responsible;  and  the  critics  may 
expose  it  to  their  heart's  content. 

I  have  moreover  a  kindly  feeling  for  these 
Reveries  from  their  very  private  character; 
they  consist  mainly  of  just  such  whimseys,  and 
reflections,  as  a  great  many  brother  bachelors 
are  apt  to  indulge  in,  but  which  they  are  too  cau- 
tious, or  too  prudent,  to  lay  before  the  world. 
As  I  have  in  this  matter  shown  a  frankness  and 
naivete  which  are  unusual,  I  shall  ask  a  corre- 
sponding frankness  in  my  reader;  and  I  can 
assure  him  safely  that  this  is  eminently  one  of 
those  books  which  were  "never  intended  for 
publication." 

In  the  hope  that  this  plain  avowal  may 
quicken  the  reader's  charity,  and  screen  me 
from  cruel  judgment, 

I  remain,  with  sincere  good  wishes, 

IK  MARVEL. 

NEW  YORK,  Nov.,  1850. 


ix 


SECOND  PREFACE 

MY  publisher  has  written  me  that  the  old  type 
of  this  book  of  the  Reveries  are  so  far  worn 
and  battered,  that  they  will  bear  no  further 
usage ;  and,  in  view  of  a  new  edition,  he  asks 
for  such  revision  of  the  text  as  I  may  deem  ju- 
dicious, and  for  a  few  lines  in  way  of  preface. 

I  began  the  revision.  I  scored  out  word 
after  word ;  presently  I  came  to  the  scoring  out 
of  paragraphs;  and  before  I  had  done,  I  was 
making  my  scores  by  the  page. 

It  would  never  do.  It  might  be  the  better, 
but  it  would  not  be  the  same.  I  cannot  lop 
away  those  twelve  swift,  changeful  years  that 
are  gone. 

Middle  age  does  not  look  on  life  like  youth ; 
we  cannot  make  it.  And  why  mix  the  years 
and  the  thoughts  ?  Let  the  young  carry  their 
own  burdens,  and  banner;  and  we— ours. 

I  have  determined  not  to  touch  the  book.  A 
race  has  grown  up  which  may  welcome  its 
youngness,  and  find  a  spirit  or  a  sentiment  in 


SECOND  PREFACE 

it  that  cleaves  to  them,  and  cheers  them,  and  is 
true.  I  hope  they  will. 

For  me  those  young  days  are  gone.  I  cannot 
go  back  to  that  tide.  I  hear  the  rush  of  it  in 
quiet  hours,  like  the  murmur  of  lost  music. 
The  companions  who  discussed  with  me  these 
little  fantasies  as  they  came  reeking  from  the 
press,— and  suggested  how  I  might  have 
mended  matters  by  throwing  in  a  new  light 
here,  or  deepening  the  shadows  there,— are  no 
longer  within  ear-shot.  If  living,  they  are 
widely  scattered;— heads  of  young  families, 
maybe,  who  will  bring  now  to  the  re-reading 
of  passages  they  thought  too  sombre,  the  light 
of  such  bitter  experience  as,  ten  years  since, 
neither  they  nor  I  had  fathomed.  Others  are 
dapper,  elderly  bachelors,— coquetting  with  the 
world  in  the  world's  great  cities,— brisk  in 
their  step,— coaxing  all  the  features  of  youth 
to  stay  by  them,— brushing  their  hair  with 
needless  and  nervous  frequency  over  the  grow- 
ing spot  of  baldness,— perversely  reckoning 
themselves  still  proper  mates  for  girlhood,— 
dreaming  yet  (as  we  once  dreamed  together) 
of  an  Elysium  in  store,  and  of  a  fairy  future, 
where  only  roses  shall  bloom. 

The  houses  where  I  was  accustomed  to  lin- 
ger show  other  faces  at  the  windows,— bright 
xii 


SECOND  PREFACE 

and  cheery  faces,  it  is  true,— but  they  are  look- 
ing over  at  a  young  fellow  upon  the  other  side 
of  the  way. 

The  children  who  sat  for  my  pictures  are 
grown ;  the  boys  that  I  watched  at  their  game 
of  taw,  and  who  clapped  their  hands  gleefully 
at  a  good  shot,  are  buttoned  into  natty  blue 
frocks,  and  wear  little  lace-bordered  bands  upon 
their  shoulders;  and  over  and  over,  as  I  read 
my  morning  paper,  I  am  brought  to  a  sudden 
pause,  and  a  strange  electric  current  thrills  me, 
as  I  come  upon  their  boy-names  printed  in  the 
dead-roll  of  the  war. 

The  girls  who  wore  the  charming  white  pin- 
afores, and  a  wild  tangle  of  flaxen  curls,  have 
now  netted  up  all  those  clustering  tresses  into  a 
shapely  Pompadour  head-dress ;  and  they  rustle 
past  me  in  silks,  and  do  not  know  me. 

The  elderly  friends  who  cheered  me  with 
kindly  expressions  of  look  and  tongue — I  am 
compelled  to  say — now  trip  in  their  speech ;  and 
I  observe  a  little  morocco  case  at  their  elbows 
—  for  eye-glasses. 

And  as  they  put  them  on,  to  read  what  I  may 
be  saying  now,  let  them  keep  their  old  charity, 
and  think  as  well  of  me  as  they  can. 

EDGEWOOD,  1863. 


A  NEW  PREFACE 

IN  the  year  1863— more  than  ten  years  after 
the  first  printing  of  the  REVERIES  OF  A  BACH- 
ELOR—I  wrote  a  new  Preface  for  a  new  edi- 
tion, thinking  that  I  was  then  parting  company 
with  this  little  book  forever. 

Yet  now— twenty  years  later — more  than 
thirty  since  this  waif  of  younger  years  was  first 
launched  on  the  tide  of  public  favor,  I  am 
called  again  to  face  the  youngness  of  it— to 
measure  its  short-comings — to  be  critical  over 
its  affluent  diction,  and  yet — to  launch  it  once 
again  upon  a  new  cruise  amongst  the  abound- 
ing book-craft  of  later  and  shapelier  make. 

I  would  not  have  the  courage  to  do  this,  were 
I  not  assured  by  the  publisher  that  its  homely 
old-style  qualities  are  still  welcome  to  very 
many  young  people ;  and  its  short-comings  dis- 
turb me  all  the  more  when  I  am  told— as  the 
publishers'  accounts  do  tell  me— that  many 
hundreds  of  new  buyers  every  year  do  still  find 
somewhat  in  its  fervent  rhetoric  to  warm  their 
girlish  or  boyish  hearts. 


A  NEW  PREFACE 

I  am  grateful  for  this;  and  yet  I  think  I 
have  grown  too  old  to  understand  it  fully 

It  is  quite  certain  that  at  the  first  issue  of 
this  book,  I  had  no  belief  and  no  warrant  that 
it  would  maintain  so  strong  and  so  long  a  hold 
upon  the  public  attention.  Its  publication,  in- 
deed, was  almost  an  accident;  and  perhaps  the 
Preface  I  write  to-day  will  be  most  pardonable 
and  most  agreeable  to  my  readers  if  it  take  the 
shape  of  a  history  of  the  first  writing  of  these 
REVERIES,  and  of  a  garrulous  old  man's  tale 
of  the  way  in  which  they  first  came  to  be 
printed. 

At  the  opening  of  the  year  1850,  I  began,  in 
New  York,  the  publication  of  a  little  weekly 
paper  or  pamphlet— in  very  elegant  shape  as 
regarded  typography— called  The  Lorgnette; 
or,  Studies  of  the  Town,  in  which  there  was 
some  satire  and  a  good  deal  of  what  I  counted 
honest  preachment  against  the  follies  of  the 
day.  These  papers  were  afterward  gathered 
into  book-shape,  making  two  dainty  volumes, 
which  are  still  occasionally  to  be  met  with  in 
old  book-shops.  The  pamphlets  were  published 
anonymously,  and  were  sold  with  the  imprint 
of  HENRY  KERNOT  (he  being  a  small  book- 
seller up  Broadway,  at  the  centre  of  what  was 
then  the  fashionable  shopping  region),  and  the 
xvi 


A  NEW  PREFACE 

secret  of  authorship  was  very  carefully 
guarded. 

Perhaps  for  this  reason — perhaps  for  the 
satiric  tone  which  belonged  to  them— the  pa- 
pers had  a  certain  success,  and  were  subject  of 
much  comment.  Even  Mr.  Kernot  himself  was 
not  cognizant  of  their  true  authorship;  and 
knew  little  save  that  the  big  bundle  of  yellow- 
covered  pamphlets  was  delivered  in  a  myste- 
rious way  upon  his  counter  every  Thursday 
morning.  Indeed  I  am  disposed  to  believe  that 
Mr.  Kernot's  important  air,  and  affable  smiles, 
and  tightly  closed  lips,  fed  the  mystification 
not  a  little.  The  good  man  even  volunteered 
the  keeping  of  a  weekly  diary,  in  which  he  en- 
tered the  opinions,  pro  and  con,  of  his  fashion- 
able clients— a  very  full  diary  and  humorsome 
(Mr.  Kernot  not  lacking  in  that  quality)  ;  and 
this  budget,— which  always  found  its  way  to 
me  through  the  mediation  of  one  or  two  friends 
who  were  alone  in  the  secret— is  still  in  one  of 
my  pigeon-holes,  scored  with  underlinings,  and 
radiant  with  notable  New  York  names  of  thirty 
years  since. 

By  the  time,  however,  the  Lorgnette  had 
reached  its  twelfth  number  (there  were  twenty- 
four  in  all)  suspicion  of  authorship— which 
had  drifted  about  amongst  some  dozen  or  more 
xvii 


A  NEW  PREFACE 

of  well  or  ill-known  names— began  to  settle 
upon  my  own  with  an  ugly  pertinacity. 

To  divert  this  growing  suspicion,  and  to 
guard  more  effectually  a  secret  which  had  been 
so  well  kept,  and  which  had  been  full  of  its 
pleasant  entertainments,  I  bethought  me  of 
publishing  somewhat  under  my  own  name,  of 
an  entirely  different  quality  and  tone.  A  sin- 
gle paper  of  such  sort  (the  First  REVERIE  of 
the  present  volume)  I  had  published  the  year 
previous  in  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger 
—a  journal  of  comparatively  small  circulation 
—printed  at  Richmond,  Va.,  by  my  friend  Mr. 
Jno.  R.  Thompson. 

This  paper  had  been — Mr.  Thompson  in- 
formed me — received  with  much  approval;  and 
indeed  it  had  come  at  about  this  time  to  the 
honor  of  a  private  printing,  in  elegant  quarto 
form,  and  an  edition  of  twelve  copies,  by  a  cu- 
rious bibliophile  and  (I  trust)  worthy  gentle- 
man, then  living  at  Savannah,  Ga. 

Application  had  also  been  made  to  me  by 
Mr.  Henry  J.  Raymond— at  that  time  casting 
about  for  material  to  make  up  the  early  num- 
bers of  Harper's  New  Monthly  Magazine, 
then  near  its  beginning — for  permission  to 
reprint  the  First  REVERIE.  This  permission 
was  freely  granted;  and  the  paper  thus  had 


A  NEW  PREFACE 

the  honor  of  appearing  in  the  first  volume  ever 
issued  of  Harper's  Magazine. 

Its  style  and  strain  being  wholly  unlike  that 
of  the  Lorgnette,  it  occurred  to  me  that  it 
would  be  a  politic  thing,  and  further  my  pur- 
pose of  mystifying  the  literary  quidnuncs,  to 
add  more  papers  in  a  kindred  vein,  and  publish 
all  together  as  an  independent  volume. 

I  wrote,  therefore,  the  two  succeeding  chap- 
ters, and  submitted  them,  with  the  one  pre- 
viously printed,  to  Mr.  Fields  (then  of  the 
house  of  Ticknor  &  Fields),  who  declined  their 
publication. 

I  had  made  this  proposal  to  a  Boston  house, 
because  my  well-known  and  most  friendly  re- 
lations with  Mr.  Charles  Scribner,  and  his  half- 
understood  privity  to  the  origin  of  the  Lorg- 
nette papers,  would  (in  the  event  of  my  pub- 
lishing the  new  book  with  him)  go  to  fasten 
the  suspected  authorship  more  strongly  upon 
me. 

But— as  I  said— Mr.  Fields  declined  the  new 
venture;  though,  some  years  after,  flattering 
me  with  the  admission  that  he  more  than  half 
regretted  his  decision  in  the  case.  The  decision, 
however,  did  not  at  all  disturb  my  pleasant  re- 
lations—then, and  always  after— with  the  au- 
thor-publisher. Indeed,  I  am  glad  of  this  op- 
xix 


A  NEW  PREFACE 

portunity  to  declare  my  high  appreciation  of 
the  virtues  which  belonged  to  him  as  publisher 
and  editor :  he  was  honest ;  he  was  sympathetic ; 
he  was  most  liberal  in  all  my  later  association 
with  him,  during  his  editorship  of  the  Atlantic, 
I  found  his  advices  judicious  and  pertinent; 
and  his  little  notelets— of  which  I  have  a  great 
bundle— are  full  of  those  bits  of  cheery  en- 
couragement—of piquant  praise  of  what  he 
counted  good — of  adroit  suggestions  of  what 
might  work  betterment,  which  made  them,  as 
it  seems  to  me,  model  letters  for  a  publisher 
who  wishes  to  bring  an  author  to  his  best  en- 
deavor. 

He  flattered,  to  be  sure ;  but  his  was  a  head- 
long, hearty  flattery,  full  of  an  unction  that  de- 
ceived no  man  of  sense,  yet  encouraged  and 
cheered  everybody  on  whom  the  unction  fell. 
Then,  as  I  said,  he  had  abundant  sympathy 
with  an  author's  work;— not  a  bumptious,  out- 
side calculation  of  its  bearings — but  a  delicate 
fathoming  of  your  own  intentions  and  expec- 
tancies that  was  very  helpful  and  stimulative. 
Whether  he  criticised,  or  praised,  or  made  sug- 
gestions, he  had  the  charming  art  of  making 
one  believe  thoroughly  in  his  friendliness. 

For  these  things  I  should  have  always  wel- 
comed, and  did  always  welcome  his  crisp, 
xx 


A  NEW  PREFACE 

pointed,  marrowy  little  letters,  even  if  they  had 
not  brought — as  they  so  often  did  bring — a 
most  agreeable  and  prompt  tidbit  in  form  of  a 
bank  cheque. 

But  I  return  to  my  budget  about  the  REVE- 
RIES. Failing  of  an  outside  publisher,  the  little 
book  was  speedily  put  through  the  press  by 
Mr.  Scribner— though  with  only  moderate 
hopes,  on  his  part,  of  its  success. 

It  was,  however,  in  a  vein  that  struck  people 
as  being  somewhat  new;  it  made  easy  reading 
for  young  folks ;  it  laid  strong  hold  upon  those 
of  romantic  appetites;  and  reached,  within  a 
very  few  months,  a  sale  which  surprised  the 
publisher  as  much  as  it  surprised  the  author. 

And  the  surprise  continues.  It  seems  to  me 
that  I  have  written  very  much  better  books, 
every  way,  since  that  time;  but  the  world  of 
book-buyers  will  not  agree  with  me— but  goes 
on  insisting  upon  the  larger  interest  and  values 
attaching  to  these  young  "REVERIES  OF  A 
BACHELOR." 

Well,  I  shall  not  quarrel  with  my  good 
friends :  but  when  my  publisher  sends  me  the 
old  sheets  for  revision,  I  am  in  the  same  quan- 
dary which  beset  me  twenty  years  ago.  I  may 
make,  and  have  made,  a  few  verbal  emenda- 
tions— a  little  coy  toning  down  of  over-exuber- 
xxi 


A  NEW  PREFACE 

ance;  and  I  have  put  here  and  there  a  short 
patch  of  homely  words  into  the  place  of  some 
garish  bit  of  color:  yet  when  I  come  to  deal 
with  the  sentiment  of  the  book,  and  to  question 
its  good  balance,  or  lack  of  balance,  I  am  even 
farther  removed  from  the  capacity  for  sound 
and  fair  judgment  than  twenty  years  ago. 
More  than  then— and  by  great  odds,  more— 
the  book  wears  for  me  the  illusions  and  the 
fleeting  prismatic  hues  which  bubbles  always 
wear,  and  which  youth  is  always  used  to  blow, 
and  to  follow  with  eager  eye,  till  the  iridescence 
be  gone,  and  the  bubbles  too ! 

They  do  say  that  as  age  draws  on,  and  the 
days  come  nigh  "when  the  grasshopper  is  a 
burden,"  that  the  illusions  of  youth  come  back 
again  with  something  of  their  old  unreal  charm 
and  glory ;  and  that  even  boyish  sentiment  may 
again  take  root  and  grow  in  brains  that  are 
mellowed  with  over-ripeness. 

Maybe:  Yet,  though  I  recognize  no  ram- 
pant regrowth  of  youthful  sentiment,  I  think 
that  I  do  take  note  of  a  kindlier  tolerance  steal- 
ing over  me  for  these  fantastic  children  of  my 
brain,  than  was  entertained  in  the  days  when 
vitality  was  stronger  and  manhood  more  as- 
sured of  its  headway  against  Time. 

I  am  not  certain  that  I  would  blot  out  from 
xxii 


A  NEW  PREFACE 

staid  people's  knowledge  what  they  may  count 
the  idle  vagaries  and  wanton  word-leaps  and 
the  over-tenderness  of  this  book,— even  though 
I  could. 

Whatever  the  astute  critics  may  think,  I  do 
not  and  will  not  believe  that  the  boisterous  and 
scathing  and  rollicking  humor  of  our  time  has 
blown  all  of  pathos  and  all  of  the  more  delicate 
human  sympathies  into  limbo. 

Surely— surely  there  are  loves  and  sorrows 
in  life,  which  will  not  be  exorcised  with  a 
laugh — howsoever  gamesome  or  sparkling. 
And  that  these  loves  and  sorrows  may  be 
wrought  into  language  which  will  keep  them 
healthily  alive  in  letters— how  many  witnessing 
monuments  there  be,  amongst  the  books  that 
all  men  cherish ! 

But  I  did  not  mean  to  be  led  into  any  defence 
of  these  youthful  whimseys,  or  into  any  apol- 
ogy for  them :  it  were  too  late  now.  Indeed, 
if  this  little  craft  of  a  book  were  wholly  un- 
seaworthy,  it  would— seems  to  me— have  sunk 
out  of  sight  long  ago ;  my  own  expectation  was 
that  this  would  be  its  fate. 

As  it  is— I  put  its  decks  and  spars  in  trim 

once  more— a  toy-boat,  you  may  call  it,  if  you 

like— and  launch  it  once  again,  and  for  the 

last  time  now — waving  an  adieu  to  it — hoping 

xxiii 


A  NEW  PREFACE 

it  may  drift  into  seas  where  it  has  never  found 
passage  before,  and  get  good  Christian  holding 
when  it  comes  to  harbor,  and  good  favoring 
breezes  wherever  it  may  float. 

D.  G.  M. 
EDGEWOOD,  Aug.,  1883. 


CONTENTS 


FIRST  REVERIE 

PAGE 

OVER  A  WOOD-FIRE 3 

I  SMOKE— SIGNIFYING  DOUBT     ....         7 

II  BLAZE  — SIGNIFYING  CHEEK         .      .       .       .17 
HI  ASHES  — SIGNIFYING  DESOLATION    ...        24 


SECOND  REVERIE 

BY  A  CITY  GRATE 41 

I  SEA-COAL          .                    ....        49 
H  ANTHRACITE 69 

THIRD  REVERIE 

OVER  HIS  CiGAPv 89 

I  LIGHTED  WITH  A  COAL 93 

II  LIGHTED  WITH  A  WISP  OF  PAPER*  .       .       .      107 
HI  LIGHTED  WITH  A  MATCH 123 

xxv 


CONTENTS 

FOURTH  REVERIE 

PAGE 

MORNING,  NOON,  AND  EVENING     ....        139 

I  MORNING— WHICH  is  THE  PAST       .       .       .149 

SCHOOL-DAYS 159 

THE  SEA 171 

THE  FATHERLAND 180 

A  ROMAN  GIRL 190 

THE  APENNINES 201 

ENRICA 210 

II  NOON  —  WHICH  IS  THE  PRESENT  .       .       .        219 

EARLY  FRIENDS 221 

SCHOOL  REVISITED 230 

COLLEGE 236 

THE  PACKET  OF  BELLA        ....  243 

III  EVENING — WHICH  is  THE  FUTURE    .       .       .253 

CARRY 257 

THE  LETTER 266 

NEW  TRAVEL 273 

HOME  .       .       .       .286 


xxvi 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


DONALD  G.  MITCHELL Frontispiece 

FROM  THE  PAINTING  BY  CHARLES  L.  ELLIOTT,  1857 

Facing  Page 
LION-LIKE  GIANT  OAK 90 

WITH    DIM  VIEW  OF   THE  "QUIET   FARM-HOUSE" 
500  FEET  DISTANT  (LOOKING  NORTH) 

THE  CATTLE  GOING  TO  THE  PASTURE  ARE  DRINKING 

IN  THE  POOL  BY  THE  BRIDGE  148 

"QUIET  FARM-HOUSE"  FROM  THE  WEST  .    286 


FIRST  REVERIE 

SMOKE,  FLAME,  AND  ASHES 


OVER  A  WOOD-FIRE 


IHAVE  got  a  quiet  farm-house  in  the  coun- 
try, a  very  humble  place  to  be  sure,  ten- 
anted by  a  worthy  enough  man,  of  the  old 
New-England  stamp,  where  I  sometimes  go 
for  a  day  or  two  in  the  winter,  to  look  over 
the  farm  accounts,  and  to  see  how  the  stock 
is  thriving  on  the  winter's  keep. 

One  side  the  door,  as  you  enter  from  the 
porch,  is  a  little  parlor,  scarce  twelve  feet  by 
ten,  with  a  cosey-looking  fireplace,  a  heavy  oak 
floor,  a  couple  of  arm-chairs,  and  a  brown  table 
with  carved  lions'  feet.  Out  of  this  room 
opens  a  little  cabinet,  only  big  enough  for  a 
broad  bachelor  bedstead,  where  I  sleep  upon 
feathers,  and  wake  in  the  morning  with  my 
eye  upon  a  saucy  colored  lithographic  print  of 
some  fancy  "Bessie." 

It  happens  to  be  the  only  house  in  the  world 
of  which  I  am  bona-fide  owner;  and  I  take  a 
vast  deal  of  comfort  in  treating  it  just  as  I 
choose.  I  manage  to  break  some  article  of 
furniture,  almost  every  time  I  pay  it  a  visit; 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

and  if  I  cannot  open  the  window  readily  of  a 
morning,  to  breathe  the  fresh  air,  I  knock 
out  a  pane  or  two  of  glass  with  my  boot.  I 
lean  against  the  walls  in  a  very  old  arm-chair 
there  is  on  the  premises,  and  scarce  ever  fail 
to  worry  such  a  hole  in  the  plastering  as  would 
set  me  down  for  a  round  charge  for  damages 
in  town,  or  make  a  prim  housewife  fret  herself 
into  a  raging  fever.  I  laugh  out  loud  with 
myself,  in  my  big  arm-chair,  when  I  think  that 
I  am  neither  afraid  of  one  nor  the  other. 

As  for  the  fire,  I  keep  the  little  hearth  so 
hot  as  to  warm  half  the  cellar  below,  and  the 
whole  space  between  the  jambs  roars  for  hours 
together  with  white  flame.  To  be  sure,  the 
windows  are  not  very  tight,  between  broken 
panes  and  bad  joints,  so  that  the  fire,  large  as 
it  may  be,  is  by  no  means  an  extravagant  com- 
fort. 

As  night  approaches,  I  have  a  huge  pile  of 
oak  and  hickory  placed  beside  the  hearth;  I 
put  out  the  tallow  candle  on  the  mantel,  (us- 
ing the  family  snuffers,  with  one  leg  broken,) 
then,  drawing  my  chair  directly  in  front  of 
the  blazing  wood,  and  setting  one  foot  on  each 
of  the  old  iron  fire-dogs,  (until  they  grow  too 
warm,)  I  dispose  myself  for  an  evening  of 
such  sober  and  thoughtful  quietude,  as  I  be- 


OVER  A  WOOD-FIRE 

lieve,  on  my  soul,  that  very  few  of  my  fellow- 
men  have  the  good  fortune  to  enjoy. 

My  tenant,  meantime,  in  the  other  room,  I 
can  hear  now  and  then, — though  there  is  a 
thick  stone  chimney  and  broad  entry  between, 
— multiplying  contrivances  with  his  wife  to 
put  two  babies  to  sleep.  This  occupies  them, 
I  should  say,  usually  an  hour ;  though  my  only 
measure  of  time  (for  I  never  carry  a  watch 
into  the  country)  is  the  blaze  of  my  fire.  By 
ten,  or  thereabouts,  my  stock  of  wood  is  nearly 
exhausted;  I  pile  upon  the  hot  coals  what  re- 
mains, and  sit  watching  how  it  kindles,  and 
blazes,  and  goes  out,— even  like  our  joys! — 
and  then  slip  by  the  light  of  the  embers  into 
my  bed,  where  I  luxuriate  in  such  sound  and 
healthful  slumber  as  only  such  rattling  win- 
dow-frames, and  country  air,  can  supply. 

But  to  return.  The  other  evening, — it 
happened  to  be  on  my  last  visit  to  my  farm- 
house,—when  I  had  exhausted  all  the  ordinary 
rural  topics  of  thought,  had  formed  all  sorts 
of  conjectures  as  to  the  income  of  the  year; 
had  planned  a  new  wall  around  one  lot,  and 
the  clearing  up  of  another,  now  covered  with 
patriarchal  wood;  and  wondered  if  the  little 
rickety  house  would  not  be  after  all  a  snug 
enough  box  to  live  and  to  die  in,— I  fell  on  a 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

sudden  into  such  an  unprecedented  line  of 
thought,  which  took  such  deep  hold  of  my 
sympathies— sometimes  even  starting  tears— 
that  I  determined,  the  next  day,  to  set  as  much 
of  it  as  I  could  recall,  on  paper. 

Something— it  may  have  been  the  home- 
looking  blaze,  (I  am  a  bachelor  of— say  six 
and  twenty,)  or  possibly  a  plaintive  cry  of  the 
baby  in  my  tenant's  room — had  suggested  to 
me  the  thought  of —Marriage. 

I  piled  upon  the  heated  fire-dogs  the  last 
armful  of  my  wood;  and  now,  said  I,  bracing 
myself  courageously  between  the  arms  of  my 
chair,  I  '11  not  flinch;  I  '11  pursue  the  thought 
wherever  it  leads,  though  it  lead  me  to  the 
d ,  (I  am  apt  to  be  hasty,) — at  least,  con- 
tinued I,  softening,  until  my  fire  is  out. 

The  wood  was  green,  and  at  first  showed  no 
disposition  to  blaze.  It  smoked  furiously. 
Smoke,  thought  I,  always  goes  before  Blaze; 
and  so  does  doubt  go  before  decision :  and  my 
Reverie,  from  that  very  starting  point,  slipped 
into  this  shape :— 


SMOKE-SIGNIFYING  DOUBT 

A  WIFE?— thought  I;— yes,  a  wife! 

And  why? 

And  pray,  my  dear  sir,  why  not— why? 
Why  not  doubt;  why  not  hesitate;  why  not 
tremble  ? 

Does  a  man  buy  a  ticket  in  a  lottery— a  poor 
man,  whose  whole  earnings  go  in  to  secure  the 
ticket— without  trembling,  hesitating,  and 
doubting? 

Can  a  man  stake  his  bachelor  respectability, 
his  independence  and  comfort,  upon  the  die  of 
absorbing,  unchanging,  relentless  marriage, 
without  trembling  at  the  venture? 

Shall  a  man  who  has  been  free  to  chase  his 
fancies  over  the  wide  world,  without  let  or 
hindrance,  shut  himself  up  to  marriage-ship, 
within  four  walls  called  Home,  that  are  to 
claim  him,  his  time,  his  trouble,  and  his 
thought,  thenceforward  forevermore,  without 
doubts  thick,  and  thick-coming  as  Smoke  ? 

Shall  he  who  has  been  hitherto  a  mere  ob- 
server of  other  men's  cares  and  business, — 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

moving  off  where  they  made  him  sick  of  heart, 
approaching  whenever  and  wherever  they 
made  him  gleeful,— shall  he  now  undertake 
administration  of  just  such  cares  and  business, 
without  qualms?  Shall  he,  whose  whole  life 
has  been  but  a  nimble  succession  of  escapes 
from  trifling  difficulties,  now  broach  without 
doubtings— that  Matrimony,  where  if  diffi- 
culty beset  him,  there  is  no  escape?  Shall  this 
brain  of  mine,  careless- working,  never  tired 
with  idleness,  feeding  on  long  vagaries  and 
high  gigantic  castles,  dreaming  out  beatitudes 
hour  by  hour, — turn  itself  at  length  to  such 
dull  task-work,  as  thinking  out  a  livelihood  for 
wife  and  children? 

Where  thenceforward  will  be  those  sunny 
dreams  in  which  I  have  warmed  my  fancies 
and  my  heart,  and  lighted  my  eye  with  crystal  ? 
This  very  marriage,  which  a  brilliant  working 
imagination  has  invested  time  and  again  with 
brightness  and  delight,  can  serve  no  longer  as 
a  mine  for  teeming  fancy:  all,  alas!  will  be 
gone— reduced  to  the  dull  standard  of  the 
actual.  No  more  room  for  intrepid  forays  of 
imagination— no  more  gorgeous  realm-mak- 
ing— all  will  be  over! 

Why  not,  I  thought,  go  on  dreaming? 

Can  any  wife  be  prettier  than  an  after-din- 

8 


SMOKE-SIGNIFYING    DOUBT 

ner  fancy,  idle  and  yet  vivid,  can  paint  for 
you?  Can  any  children  make  less  noise  than 
the  little,  rosy-cheeked  ones,  who  have  no  ex- 
istence except  in  the  omnium  gatherum  of  your 
own  brain?  Can  any  housewife  be  more  un- 
exceptionable than  she  who  goes  sweeping 
daintily  the  cobwebs  that  gather  in  your 
dreams?  Can  any  domestic  larder  be  better 
stocked  than  the  private  larder  of  your  head 
dozing  on  a  cushioned  chair-back  at  Del- 
monico's?  Can  any  family  purse  be  better 
filled  than  the  exceeding  plump  one  you  dream 
of,  after  reading  such  pleasant  books  as 
Miinchhausen,  or  Typee  ? 

But  if,  after  all,  it  must  be,— duty,  or  what- 
not, making  provocation, — what  then?  And 
I  clapped  my  feet  hard  against  the  fire-dogs, 
and  leaned  back,  and  turned  my  face  to  the 
ceiling,  as  much  as  to  say, — And  where  on 
earth,  then,  shall  a  poor  devil  look  for  a  wife? 

Somebody  says,— Lyttleton  or  Shaftesbury 
I  think,— that  "marriages  would  be  happier  if 
they  were  all  arranged  by  the  Lord  Chancel- 
lor." Unfortunately,  we  have  no  Lord  Chan- 
cellor to  make  this  commutation  of  our  misery. 

Shall  a  man  then  scour  the  country  on  a 
mule's  back,  like  Honest  Gil  Bias  of  Santil- 
lane ;  or  shall  he  make  application  to  some  such 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

intervening  providence  as  Madame  St.  Marc, 
who,  as  I  see  by  the  Presse,  manages  these 
matters  to  one's  hand  for  some  five  per  cent, 
on  the  fortunes  of  the  parties? 

I  have  trouted,  when  the  brook  was  so  low, 
and  the  sky  so  hot,  that  I  might  as  well  have 
thrown  my  fly  upon  the  turnpike;  and  I  have 
hunted  hare  at  noon,  and  woodcock  in  snow- 
time,  never  despairing,  scarce  doubting;  but 
for  a  poor  hunter  of  his  kind,  without  traps 
or  snares,  or  any  aid  of  police  or  constabulary, 
1  to  traverse  the  world,  where  are  swarming,  on 
a  moderate  computation,  some  three  hundred 
and  odd  millions  of  unmarried  women,  for  a 
single  capture — irremediable,  unchangeable — 
and  yet  a  capture  which,  by  strange  metonymy 
not  laid  down  in  the  books,  is  very  apt  to  turn 
captor  into  captive,  and  make  game  of  hunter, 
— all  this,  surely,  surely  may  make  a  man 
,  shrug  with  doubt ! 

Then,  again, — there  are  the  plaguey  wife's 
relations.  Who  knows  how  many  third, 
fourth,  or  fifth  cousins  will  appear  at  careless 
complimentary  intervals,  long  after  you  had 
settled  into  the  placid  belief  that  all  congratu- 
latory visits  were  at  an  end?  How  many 
twisted-headed  brothers  will  be  putting  in  their 
advice,  as  a  friend  to  Peggy  ? 

10 


SMOKE— SIGNIFYING    DOUBT 

How  many  maiden  aunts  will  come  to  spend 
a  month  or  two  with  their  "dear  Peggy,"  and 
want  to  know  every  tea-time  "if  she  is  n't  a 
dear  love  of  a  wife?"  Then,  dear  father-in- 
law  will  beg  (taking  dear  Peggy's  hand  in 
his)  to  give  a  little  wholesome  counsel;  and 
will  be  very  sure  to  advise  just  the  contrary  of 
what  you  had  determined  to  undertake.  And 
dear  mamma-in-law  must  set  her  nose  into 
Peggy's  cupboard,  and  insist  upon  having  the 
key  to  your  own  private  locker  in  the  wainscot. 

Then,  perhaps,  there  is  a  little  bevy  of  dirty- 
nosed  nephews  who  come  to  spend  the  holi- 
days, and  eat  up  your  East  India  sweetmeats; 
and  who  are  forever  tramping  over  your  head, 
or  raising  the  old  Harry  below,  while  you  are 
busy  with  your  clients.  Last,  and  worst,  is 
some  fidgety  old  uncle,  forever  too  cold  or  too 
hot,  who  vexes  you  with  his  patronizing  airs, 
and  impudently  kisses  his  little  Peggy ! 

That  could  be  borne,  however;  for  per- 
haps he  has  promised  his  fortune  to  Peggy. 
Peggy,  then,  will  be  rich:  (and  the  thought 
made  me  rub  my  shins,  which  were  now  get- 
ting comfortably  warm  upon  the  fire-dogs.) 
Then,  she  will  be  forever  talking  of  her  for- 
tune; and  pleasantly  reminding  you,  on  occa- 
sion of  a  favorite  purchase, — how  lucky  that 

ii 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

she  had  the  means;  and  dropping  hints  about 
economy;  and  buying  very  extravagant  Pais- 
leys. 

She  will  annoy  you  by  looking  over  the 
stock-list  at  breakfast-time;  and  mention  quite 
carelessly  to  your  clients  that  she  is  interested 
in  such  or  such  a  speculation. 

She  will  be  provokingly  silent  when  you 
hint  to  a  tradesman  that  you  have  not  the 
1  money  by  you  for  his  small  bill ;  in  short,  she 
will  tear  the  life  out  of  you,  making  you  pay 
in  righteous  retribution  of  annoyance,  grief, 
vexation,  shame,  and  sickness  of  heart,  for  the 

.  superlative  folly  of  "marrying  rich." 

But  if  not  rich,  then  poor.     Bah!  the 

thought  made  me  stir  the  coals;  but  there  was 
still  no  blaze.  The  paltry  earnings  you  are 
able  to  wring  out  of  clients  by  the  sweat  of 
your  brow,  will  now  be  all  our  income;  you 
will  be  pestered  for  pin-money,  and  pestered 
with  your  poor  wife's  relations.  Ten  to  one, 
she  will  stickle  about  taste,— "Sir  Visto's,"— 

f  and  want  to  make  this  so  pretty,  and  that  so 
charming,  if  she  only  had  the  means;  and  is 
sure  Paul  (a  kiss)  can't  deny  his  little  Peggy 
such  a  trifling  sum,  and  all  for  the  common 
benefit. 

Then  she,  for  one,  means  that  her  children 

12 


SMOKE-SIGNIFYING   DOUBT 

shan't  go  a-begging  for  clothes,— and  another 
pull  at  the  purse.  Trust  a  poor  mother  to  dress 
her  children  in  finery ! 

Perhaps  she  is  ugly;  not  noticeable  at  first, 
but  growing  on  her,  and  (what  is  worse) 
growing  faster  on  you.  You  wonder  why  you 
did  n't  see  that  vulgar  nose  long  ago ;  and  that 
lip — it  is  very  strange,  you  think,  that  you  ever 
thought  it  pretty.  And  then,  to  come  to  break- 
fast, with  her  hair  looking  as  it  does,  and  you 
not  so  much  as  daring  to  say,  "Peggy,  do 
brush  your  hair !"  Her  foot  too— not  very  bad 
when  decently  chaussee— but  now  since  she  's 
married  she  does  wear  such  infernal  slippers! 
And  yet  for  all  this,  to  be  prigging  up  for  an 
hour  when  any  of  my  old  chums  come  to  dine 
with  me ! 

"Bless  your  kind  hearts,  my  dear  fellows," 
said  I,  thrusting  the  tongs  into  the  coals,  and 
speaking  out  loud,  as  if  my  voice  could  reach 
from  Virginia  to  Paris:  "not  married  yet!" 

Perhaps  Peggy  is  pretty  enough,  only 
shrewish. 

No  matter  for  cold  coffee;  you  should 

have  been  up  before. 

What  sad,  thin,  poorly  cooked  chops,  to  eat 
with  your  rolls ! 

She  thinks  they  are  very  good,   and 

13 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

wonders  how  you  can  set  such  an  example  to 
your  children. 

The  butter  is  nauseating. 

She  has  no  other,  and  hopes  you  '11  not 

raise  a  storm  about  butter  a  little  turned.  I 
think  I  see  myself,  ruminated  I,  sitting  meekly 
at  table,  scarce  daring  to  lift  up  my  eyes,  ut- 
terly fagged  out  with  some  quarrel  of  yester- 
day, choking  down  detestably  sour  muffins, 
that  my  wife  thinks  are  "delicious,"  slipping 
in  dried  mouth fuls  of  burnt  ham  off  the  side 
of  my  fork  tines,  slipping  off  my  chair  side- 
ways at  the  end,  and  slipping  out,  with  my  hat 
between  my  knees,  to  business,  'and  never  feel- 
ing myself  a  competent,  sound-minded  man, 
till  the  oak  door  is  between  me  and  Peggy. 

"Ha,  ha!  not  yet,"  said  I;  and  in  so 

earnest  a  tone  that  my  dog  started  to  his  feet, 
cocked  his  eye  to  have  a  good  look  into  my 
face,  met  my  smile  of  triumph  with  an  amiable 
wag  of  the  tail,  and  curled  up  again  in  the 
corner. 

Again,  Peggy  is  rich  enough,  well  enough, 
mild  enough,  only  she  does  n't  care  a  fig  for 
you.  She  has  married  you  because  father  or 
grandfather  thought  the  match  eligible,  and 
because  she  did  n't  wish  to  disoblige  them. 
Besides,  she  did  n't  positively  hate  you,  and 

14 


SMOKE— SIGNIFYING   DOUBT 

thought  you  were  a  respectable  enough  young 
person;  she  has  told  you  so  repeatedly  at  din- 
ner. She  wonders  you  like  to  read  poetry; 
she  wishes  you  would  buy  her  a  good  cook- 
book, and  insists  upon  your  making  your  will 
at  the  birth  of  the  first  baby. 

She  thinks  Captain  So-and-So  a  splendid- 
looking  fellow,  and  wishes  you  would  trim  up 
a  little,  were  it  only  for  appearance  sake. 

You  need  not  hurry  up  from  the  office  so 
early  at  night:  she,  bless  her  dear  heart!  does 
not  feel  lonely.  You  read  to  her  a  love-tale: 
she  interrupts  the  pathetic  parts  with  directions 
to  her  seamstress.  You  read  of  marriages : 
she  sighs,  and  asks  if  Captain  So-and-So  has 
left  town  ?  She  hates  to  be  mewed  up  in  a  cot- 
tage, or  between  brick  walls;  she  does  so  love 
the  Springs! 

But,  again,  Peggy  loves  you;  at  least  she 
swears  it,  with  her  hand  on  the  "Sorrows  of 
Werther."  She  has  pin-money  which  she 
spends  for  the  "Literary  World"  and  the 
"Friends  in  Council."  She  is  not  bad-looking, 
save  a  bit  too  much  of  forehead;  nor  is  she 
sluttish,  unless  a  neglige  till  three  o'clock,  and 
an  ink-stain  on  the  forefinger  be  sluttish;  but 
then  she  is  such  a  sad  blue! 

You  never  fancied,  when  you  saw  her  buried 

'5 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

in  a  three-volume  novel,  that  it  was  anything 
more  than  a  girlish  vagary;  and  when  she 
quoted  Latin,  you  thought  innocently  that  she 
had  a  capital  memory  for  her  samplers. 

But  to  be  bored  eternally  about  divine  Dante 
and  funny  Goldoni,  is  too  bad.  Your  copy 
of  Tasso,  a  treasure  print  of  1680,  is  all  be- 
thumbed  and  dogs-eared,  and  spotted  with 
baby-gruel.  Even  your  Seneca— an  Elzevir 
—is  all  sweaty  with  handling.  She  adores 
La  Fontaine,  reads  Balzac  with  a  kind  of  art- 
ist-scowl, and  will  not  let  Greek  alone. 

You  hint  at  broken  rest  and  an  aching  head 
at  breakfast,  and  she  will  fling  you  a  scrap  of 
Anthology,  in  lieu  of  the  camphor-bottle,  or 
chant  the  o«u,  o«u,  of  tragic  chorus. 

The  nurse  is  getting  dinner;  you  are 

holding  the  baby ;  Peggy  is  reading  Bruyere. 

The  fire  smoked  thick  as  pitch,  and  puffed 
out  little  clouds  over  the  chimney-piece.  I 
gave  the  fore-stick  a  kick,  at  the  thought  of 
Peggy,  baby,  and  Bruyere. 

Suddenly  the  flame  flickered  bluely 

athwart  the  Smoke,  caught  at  a  twig  below, 
rolled  round  the  mossy  oak  stick,  twined 
among  the  crackling  tree-limbs,  mounted,  lit 
up  the  whole  body  of  Smoke,  and  blazed  out 
cheerily  and  bright.  Doubt  vanished  with 
Smoke,  and  Hope  began  with  Flame. 

16 


II 

BLAZE-SIGNIFYING  CHEER 

I  PUSHED  my  chair  back;  drew  up  another; 
stretched  out  my  feet  cosily  upon  it,  rested 
my  elbows  on  the  chair-arms,  leaned  my  head 
on  one  hand,  and  looked  straight  into  the  leap- 
ing and  dancing  flame. 

Love  is  a  flame,  ruminated  I;  and 

(glancing  round  the  room)  how  a  flame 
brightens  up  a  man's  habitation. 

"Carlo,"  said  I,  calling  up  my  dog  into  the 
light ;  "good  fellow,  Carlo !"  and  I  patted  him 
kindly;  and  he  wagged  his  tail,  and  laid  his 
nose  across  my  knee,  and  looked  wistfully  up 
in  my  face;  then  strode  away,  turned  to  look 
again,  and  lay  down  to  sleep. 

"Pho,  the  brute !"  said  I ;  "it  is  not  enough, 
after  all,  to  like  a  dog." 

If  now  in  that  chair  yonder,  not  the  one 

your  feet  lie  upon,  but  the  other,  beside  you,— 
closer  yet,— were  seated  a  sweet- faced  girl, 
with  a  pretty  little  foot  lying  out  upon  the 
hearth,  a  bit  of  lace  running  round  the  swelling 
throat,  the  hair  parted  to  a  charm  over  a  fore- 
head fair  as  any  of  your  dreams, — and  if  you 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

could  reach  an  arm  round  that  chair-back, 
without  fear  of  giving  offence,  and  suffer  your 
fingers  to  play  idly  with  those  curls  that  escape 
down  the  neck, — and  if  you  could  clasp  with 
your  other  hand  those  little,  white  taper  ringers 
of  hers,  which  lie  so  temptingly  within  reach, 
and  so,  talk  softly  and  low  in  presence  of  the 
Blaze,  while  the  hours  slip  without  knowledge, 
and  the  winter  winds  whistle  uncared  for,— 
if,  in  short,  you  were  no  bachelor,  but  the 
husband  of  some  such  sweet  image,  (dream, 
call  it  rather,)  would  it  not  be  far  pleasanter 
than  this  cold,  single,  night-sitting,  counting 
the  sticks,  reckoning  the  length  of  the  Blaze, 
and  the  height  of  the  falling  snow  ? 

And  if,  some  or  all  of  those  wild  vagaries 
that  grow  on  your  fancy  at  such  an  hour,  you 
could  whisper  into  listening  because  loving 
ears, — ears  not  tired  with  listening,  because  it 
is  you  who  whisper, — ears  ever  indulgent,  be- 
cause eager  to  praise,— and  if  your  darkest 
fancies  were  lit  up,  not  merely  with  bright 
wood-fire,  but  with  a  ringing  laugh  of  that 
sweet  face  turned  up  in  fond  rebuke, — how  far 
better,  than  to  be  waxing  black  and  sour  over 
pestilential  humors,  alone, — your  very  dog 
asleep  ? 

And  if,  when  a  glowing  thought  comes  into 

18 


BLAZE— SIGNIFYING    CHEER 

your  brain,  quick  and  sudden,  you  could  tell 
it  over  as  to  a  second  self,  to  that  sweet  crea- 
ture, who  is  not  away  because  she  IQVCS  to  be 
there;  and  if  you  could  watch  the  thought 
catching  that  girlish  mind,  illuming  that  fair 
brow,  sparkling  in  those  pleasantest  of  eyes,— 
how  far  better  than  to  feel  it  slumbering,  and 
going  out,  heavy,  lifeless,  and  dead,  in  your 
own  selfish  fancy.  And  if  a  generous  emotion 
steals  over  you,  coming  you  know  not  whither, 
would  there  not  be  a  richer  charm  in  lavishing 
it  in  caress,  or  endearing  word,  upon  that 
fondest  and  most  cherished  one,  than  in  pat- 
ting your  glossy  coated  dog,  or  sinking  lonely 
to  smiling  slumbers? 

Would  not  benevolence  ripen  with  such 
monitor  to  task  it?  Would  not  selfishness 
grow  faint  and  dull,  leaning  ever  to  that  sec- 
ond self,  which  is  the  loved  one?  Would  not 
guile  shiver,  and  grow  weak,  before  that  girl- 
brow,  and  eye  of  innocence?  Would  not  all 
that  boyhood  prized  of  enthusiasm,  and  quick 
blood,  and  life,  renew  itself  in  such  presence?^ 

The  fire  was  getting  hotter,  and  I  moved 
into  the  middle  of  the  room.  The  shadows 
the  flames  made  were  playing  like  fairy  forms 
over  floor,  and  wall,  and  ceiling. 

My  fancy  would  surely  quicken,  thought  I, 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

if  such  being  were  in  attendance.  Surely  im- 
agination would  be  stronger  and  purer,  if  it 
could  have  the  playful  fancies  of  dawning 
womanhood  to  delight  it.  All  toil  would  be 
torn  from  mind-labor,  if  but  another  heart 
grew  into  this  present  soul,  quickening  it, 
warming  it,  cheering  it,  bidding  it  ever  God 
speed ! 

Her  face  would  make  a  halo,  rich  as  a  rain- 
bow, atop  of  all  such  noisome  things  as  we 
lonely  souls  call  trouble.  Her  smile  would  il- 
lumine the  blackest  of  crowding  cares;  and 
darkness  that  now  seats  you  despondent  in 
your  solitary  chair  for  days  together,  weaving 
bitter  fancies,  dreaming  bitter  dreams,  would 
grow  light  and  thin,  and  spread  and  float 
away,  chased  by  that  beloved  smile. 

Your  friend — poor  fellow! — dies:  never 
mind,  that  gentle  clasp  of  her  fingers,  as  she 
steals  behind  you,  telling  you  not  to  mourn,— 
it  is  worth  ten  friends ! 

Your  sister,  sweet  one,  is  dead— buried. 
The  worms  are  busy  with  all  her  fairness. 
How  it  makes  you  think  earth  nothing  but  a 
spot  to  dig  graves  upon ! 

It  is  more.  She,  she  says,  will  be  a 

sister,  and  the  waving  curls,  as  she  leans  upon 
your  shoulder,  touch  your  cheek ;  and  your  wet 

20 


BLAZE-SIGNIFYING    CHEER 

eye  turns  to  meet  those  other  eyes— God  has 
sent  his  angel,  surely ! 

Your  mother,  alas  for  it,— she  is  gone.  Is 
there  any  bitterness  to  a  youth,  alone  and 
homeless,  like  this? 

But  you  are  not  homeless ;  you  are  not  alone : 
she  is  there;  her  smile  lighting  yours,  her 
grief  killing  yours;  and  you  live  again,  to  as- 
suage that  kind  sorrow  of  hers. 

Then,  those  children,  rosy,  fair-haired;  no, 
they  do  not  disturb  you  with  their  prattle  now ; 
they  are  yours.  Toss  away  there  on  the 
greensward;  never  mind  the  hyacinths,  the 
snowdrops,  the  violets,  if  so  be  any  are  there; 
the  perfume  of  their  healthful  lips  is  worth  all 
the  flowers  of  the  world.  No  need  now  to 
gather  wild  bouquets  to  love  and  cherish : 
flower,  tree,  gun,  are  all  dead  things;  things 
livelier  hold  your  soul. 

And  she,  the  mother,  sweetest  and  fairest  of 
all,  watching,  tending,  caressing,  loving,  till 
your  own  heart  grows  pained  with  tenderest 
jealousy,  and  cures  itself  with  loving. 

You  have  no  need  now  of  any  cold  lecture 
to  teach  thankfulness :  your  heart  is  full  of  it. 
No  need  now,  as  once,  of  bursting  blossoms, 
of  trees  taking  leaf  and  greenness,  to  turn 
thought  kindly  and  thankfully;  for  ever  be- 

21 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

side  you  there  is  bloom,  and  ever  beside  you 
there  is  fruit,  for  which  eye,  heart,  and  soul 
are  full  of  unknown  and  unspoken,  because 
unspeakable  thank-offering. 

And  if  sickness  catches  you,  binds  you,  lays 
you  down:  no  lonely  moanings,  and  wicked 
curses  at  careless  stepping  nurses.  The  step 
is  noiseless,  and  yet  distinct  beside  you.  The 
white  curtains  are  drawn,  or  withdrawn,  by 
the  magic  of  that  other  presence;  and  the  soft, 
cool  hand  is  upon  your  brow. 

No  cold  comfortings  of  friend-watchers, 
merely  come  in  to  steal  a  word,  away  from 
that  outer  world  which  is  pulling  at  their 
skirts;  but,  ever,  the  sad,  shaded  brow  of  her, 
whose  lightest  sorrow  for  your  sake  is  your 
greatest  grief,  if  it  were  not  a  greater  joy. 

The  Blaze  was  leaping  light  and  high,  and 
the  wood  falling  under  the  growing  heat. 

So,  continued  I,  this  heart  would  be  at 

length  itself;  striving  with  everything  gross, 
even  now  as  it  clings  to  gfossness.  Earth's 
cares  would  fly.  Joys  would  double.  Suscep- 
tibilities be  quickened;  Love  master  self;  and 
having  made  the  mastery,  stretch  onward  and 
upward  toward  Infinitude. 

And  if  the  end  came,  and  sickness  brought 
that  follower— Great  Follower— which  sooner 

22 


BLAZE-SIGNIFYING    CHEER 

or  later  is  sure  to  come  after,  then  the  heart, 
and  the  hand  of  Love,  ever  near,  are  giving  to 
your  tired  soul,  daily  and  hourly,  lessons  of 
that  love  which  consoles,  which  triumphs, 
which  circleth  all,  and  centreth  in  all,— Love 
Infinite  and  Divine. 

Kind  hands— none  but  hers— will  smooth 
the  hair  upon  your  brow  as  the  chill  grows 
damp  and  heavy  on  it;  and  her  fingers — none 
but  hers — will  lie  in  yours  as  the  wasted  flesh 
stiffens,  and  hardens  for  the  ground.  Her 
tears — you  could  feel  no  others,  if  oceans  fell 
—will  warm  your  drooping  features  once  more 
to  life;  once  more  your  eye,  lighted  in  joyous 
triumph,  kindle  in  her  smile,  and  then 

The  fire  fell  upon  the  hearth ;  the  Blaze  gave 
a  last  leap,— a  flicker,— then  another,— caught 
a  little  remaining  twig,— flashed  up,— wavered, 
, — went  out. 

There  was  nothing  but  a  bed  of  glowing 
embers,  over  which  the  white  Ashes  gathered 
fast.  I  was  alone,  with  only  my  dog  for 
company. 


Ill 

ASHES-SIGNIFYING  DESOLATION 

AFTER  all,  thought  I,  Ashes  follow  Blaze, 
inevitably  as  Death  follows  Life.  Misery 
treads  on  the  heels  of  Joy;  Anguish  rides  swift 
after  Pleasure. 

"Come  to  me  again,  Carlo,"  said  I  to  my 
dog;  and  I  patted  him  fondly  once  more,  but 
now  only  by  the  light  of  the  dying  embers. 

It  is  very  little  pleasure  one  takes  in  fond- 
ling brute  favorites;  but  it  is  a  pleasure  that 
when  it  passes  leaves  no  void.  It  is  only  a 
little  alleviating  redundance  in  your  solitary 
heart-life,  which,  if  lost,  another  can  be  sup- 
plied. 

But  if  your  heart — not  solitary,  not  quiet- 
ing its  humors  with  mere  love  of  chase  or  dog, 
not  repressing  year  after  year  its  earnest  yearn- 
ings after  something  better  and  more  spiritual 
—has  fairly  linked  itself  by  bonds  strong  as 
life  to  another  heart,  is  the  casting  off  easy, 
then? 

Is  it  then  only  a  little  heart-redundancy  cut 
off  which  the  next  bright  sunset  will  fill  up  ? 

24 


ASHES— SIGNIFYING    DESOLATION 

And  my  fancy,  as  it  had  painted  Doubt 
under  the  Smoke,  and  Cheer  under  warmth  of 
the  Blaze,  so  now  it  began,  under  the  faint 
light  of  the  smouldering  embers,  to  picture 
heart-desolation. 

What  kind,  congratulatory  letters, 

hosts  of  them,  coming  from  old  and  half-for- 
gotten friends,  now  that  your  happiness  is  a 
year,  or  two  years  old ! 

"Beautiful." 

Aye,  to  be  sure,  beautiful ! 

"Rich." 

Pho,  the  dawdler!  how  little  he  knows 

of  heart-treasure  who  speaks  of  wealth  to  a 
man  who  loves  his  wife,  as  a  wife  only  should 
be  loved ! 

"Young." 

Young  indeed;  guileless  as  infancy; 

charming  as  the  morning. 

Ah,  these  letters  bear  a  sting:  they  bring  to 
mind,  with  new  and  newer  freshness,  if  it  be 
possible,  the  value  of  that  which  you  tremble 
lest  you  lose. 

How  anxiously  you  watch  that  step,  if  it 
lose  not  its  buoyancy ;  how  you  study  the  color 
on  that  cheek,  if  it  grow  not  fainter;  how  you 
tremble  at  the  lustre  in  those  eyes,  if  it  be  not 
the  lustre  of  death;  how  you  totter  under  the 

25 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

weight  of  that  muslin  sleeve— a  phantom 
weight !  How  you  fear  to  do  it,  and  yet  press 
forward,  to  note  if  that  breathing  be  quick- 
ened, as  you  ascend  the  home-heights,  to  look 
off  on  sunset  lighting  the  plain. 

Is  your  sleep  quiet  sleep,  after  that  she  has 
whispered  to  you  her  fears;  and  in  the  same 
breath—  soft  as  a  sigh,  sharp  as  an  arrow— bid 
you  bear  it  bravely  ? 

Perhaps— the  embers  were  now  glowing 
fresher,  a  little  kindling,  before  the  Ashes- 
she  triumphs  over  disease. 

But  Poverty,  the  world's  almoner,  has  come 
to  you  with  ready,  spare  hand. 

Alone,  with  your  dog  living  on  bones,  and 
you  on  hope— kindling  each  morning,  dying 
slowly  each  night,— this  could  be  borne.  Phil- 
osophy would  bring  home  its  stores  to  the  lone 
man.  Money  is  not  in  his  hand,  but  Know- 
ledge is  in  his  brain;  and  from  that  brain  he 
draws  out  faster,  as  he  draws  slower  from  his 
pocket.  He  remembers :  and  on  remembrance 
he  can  live  for  days,  and  weeks.  The  garret, 
if  a  garret  covers  him,  is  rich  in  fancies.  The 
rain,  if  it  pelts,  pelts  only  him  used  to  rain- 
peltings.  And  his  dog  crouches  not  in  dread, 
but  in  companionship.  His  crust  he  divides 
with  him,  and  laughs.  He  crowns  himself 

26 


ASHES— SIGNIFYING    DESOLATION 

with  glorious  memories  of  Cervantes,  though 
he  begs:  if  he  nights  it  under  the  stars,  he 
dreams  heaven-sent  dreams  of  the^  prisoned 
and  homeless  Galileo. 

He  hums  old  sonnets,  and  snatches  of  poor 
Jonson's  plays.  He  chants  Dryden's  odes,  and 
dwells  on  Otway's  rhyme.  He  reasons  with 
Bolingbroke  or  Diogenes,  as  the  humor  takes 
him;  and  laughs  at  the  world:  for  the  world, 
thank  Heaven,  has  left  him  alone. 

Keep  your  money,  old  misers,  and  your 
palaces,  old  princes,— the  world  is  mine! 

"I  care  not,  Fortune,  what  you  me  deny. 
You  cannot  rob  me  of  free  nature's  grace, 

You  cannot  shut  the  windows  of  the  sky, 
Through  which  Aurora  shows  her  brightening 

face; 
You  cannot  bar  my  constant  feet  to  trace 

The  woods  and  lawns,  by  living  streams,  at  eve. 
Let  health  my  nerves  and  finer  fibres  brace, 

And  I  their  toys  to  the  great  children  leave : 
Of  Fancy,  Reason,  Virtue,  naught  can  me  be- 
reave !" 

But— if  not  alone? 

If  she  is  clinging  to  you  for  support,  for 
consolation,  for  home,  for  life,— she,  reared 
in  luxury  perhaps,  is  faint  for  bread  ? 

27 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

Then,  the  iron  enters  the  soul;  then  the 
nights  darken  under  any  skylight.  Then  the 
days  grow  long,  even  in  the  solstice  of  winter, 

She  may  not  complain ;  what  then  ? 

Will  your  heart  grow  strong,  if  the  strength 
of  her  love  can  dam  up  the  fountains  of  tears, 
and  the  tied  tongue  not  tell  of  bereavement? 
Will  it  solace  you  to  find  her  parting  the  poor 
treasure  of  food  you  have  stolen  for  her,  with 
begging,  f oodless  children  ? 

But  this  ill,  strong  hands,  and  Heaven's 
help,  will  put  down.  Wealth  again;  Flowers 
again;  Patrimonial  acres  again;  Brightness 
again.  But  your  little  Bessy,  your  favorite 
child,  is  pining. 

Would  to  God!  you  say  in  agony,  that 
wealth  could  bring  fulness  again  into  that 
blanched  cheek,  or  round  those  little  thin  lips 
once  more;  but  it  cannot.  Thinner  and  thin- 
ner they  grow;  plaintive  and  more  plaintive 
her  sweet  voice. 

"Dear  Bessy" — and  your  tones  tremble; 
you  feel  that  she  is  on  the  edge  of  the  grave? 
Can  you  pluck  her  back?  Can  endearments 
stay  her?  Business  is  heavy,  away  from  the 
loved  child;  home  you  go,  to  fondle  while  yet 
time  is  left;  but  this  time  you  are  too  late. 
She  is  gone.  She  cannot  hear  you :  she  cannot 

28 


ASHES— SIGNIFYING    DESOLATION 

thank  you  for  the  violets  you  put  within  her 
stiff  white  hand. 

And  then— the  grassy  mound— the  cold 
shadow  of  the  headstone ! 

The  wind,  growing  with  the  night,  is  rat- 
tling at  the  window-panes,  and  whistles  dis- 
mally; and,  in  the  interval  of  my  Reverie,  I 
thank  God  that  I  am  no  such  mourner. 

But  gayety,  snail-footed,  creeps  back  to  the 
household.  All  is  bright  again:— 

the  violet  bed  's  not  sweeter 
Than  the  delicious  breath  marriage  sends  forth. 

Her  lip  is  rich  and  full;  her  cheek  delicate 
as  a  flower.  Her  frailty  doubles  your  love. 

And  the  little  one  she  clasps— frail  too— too 
frail ;  the  boy  you  had  set  your  hopes  and  heart 
on.  You  have  watched  him  growing,  ever 
prettier,  ever  winning  more  and  more  upon 
your  soul.  The  love  you  bore  to  him  when  he 
first  lisped  names— your  name  and  hers— has 
doubled  in  strength,  now  that  he  asks  inno- 
cently to  be  taught  of  this  or  that,  and  prom- 
ises you,  by  that  quick  curiosity  that  flashes  in 
his  eye,  a  mind  full  of  intelligence. 

And  some  hair-breadth  escape  by  sea  or 
flood,  that  he  perhaps  may  have  had,— which 
unstrung  your  soul  to  such  grief  as  you  pray 

29 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

God  may  be  spared  you  again, — has  endeared 
the  little  fellow  to  your  heart  a  thousand-fold. 

And  now,  with  his  pale  sister  in  the  grave, 
all  that  love  has  come  away  from  the  mound, 
where  worms  prey,  and  centres  on  the  boy. 

How  you  watch  the  storms  lest  they  harm 
him.  How  often  you  steal  to  his  bed  late  at 
night,  and  lay  your  hand  lightly  upon  the 
brow,  where  the  curls  cluster  thick,  rising  and 
falling  with  the  throbbing  temples,  and  watch, 
for  minutes  together,  the  little  lips  half  parted, 
and  listen— your  ear  close  to  them— if  the 
breathing  be  regular  and  sweet. 

But  the  day  comes— the  night  rather— when 
you  can  catch  no  breathing. 

Aye,  put  your  hair  away;  compose  yourself; 
listen  again. 

No,  there  is  nothing ! 

Put  your  hand  now  to  his  brow, — damp, 
indeed  but  not  with  healthful  night-sleep ;  it  is 
not  your  hand, — no,  do  not  deceive  yourself, 
— it  is  your  loved  boy's  forehead  that  is  so 
cold;  and  your  loved  boy  will  never  speak  to 
you  again — never  play  again — he  is  dead ! 

Ah,  the  tears — the  tears!  Never  fear  now 
to  let  them  fall  on  his  forehead,  or  his  lip,  lest 
you  waken  him.  Clasp  him— clasp  him 
harder;  you  cannot  hurt,  you  cannot  waken 

30 


ASHES— SIGNIFYING    DESOLATION 

him.  Lay  him  down,  gently  or  not,  it  is  the 
same ;  he  is  stiff ;  he  is  stark  and  cold. 

But  courage  is  elastic;  it  is  our  pride.  It 
recovers  itself  easier,  thought  I,  than  these 
embers  will  get  into  Blaze  again. 

But  courage,  and  patience,  and  faith,  and 
hope  have  their  limit.  Blessed  be  the  man  who 
escapes  such  trial  as  will  determine  limit ! 

To  a  lone  man  it  comes  not  near;  for  how 
can  trial  take  hold  where  there  is  nothing  by 
which  to  try  ? 

A  funeral?  You  philosophize.  A  grave- 
yard? You  read  Hervey,  and  muse  upon  the 
wall.  A  friend  dies  ?  You  sigh,  you  pat  your 
dog;  it  is  over.  Losses?  You  retrench;  you 
light  your  pipe;  it  is  forgotten.  Calumny? 
You  laugh — you  sleep. 

But  with  that  childless  wife  clinging  to  you 
in  love  and  sorrow — what  then? 

Can  you  take  down  Seneca  now,  and  coolly 
blow  the  dust  from  the  leaf-tops?  Can  you 
crimp  your  lip  with  Voltaire?  Can  you  smoke 
idly,  your  feet  dangling  with  the  ivies,  your 
thoughts  all  waving  fancies  upon  a  church- 
yard wall,— a  wall  that  borders  the  grave  of 
your  boy? 

Can  you  amuse  yourself  by  turning  sting- 
ing Martial  into  rhyme?  Can  you  pat  your 

31 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

dog,  and  seeing  him  wakeful  and  kind,  say  "it 
is  enough"  ?  Can  you  sneer  at  calumny,  and 
sit  by  your  fire  dozing  ? 

Blessed,  thought  I  again,  is  the  man  who 
escapes  such  trials  as  will  measure  the  limit  of 
patience  and  the  limit  of  courage ! 

But  the  trial  comes:— colder  and  colder 
were  growing  the  embers. 

That  wife,  over  whom  your  love  broods,  is 
fading.  Not  beauty  fading;  that,  now  that 
your  heart  is  wrapped  in  her  being,  would  be 
nothing. 

She  sees  with  quick  eye  your  dawning  ap- 
prehension, and  she  tries  hard  to  make  that 
step  of  hers  elastic. 

Your  trials  and  your  loves  together  have 
centred  your  affections.  They  are  not  now  as 
when  you  were  a  lone  man,  widespread  and 
superficial.  They  have  caught  from  domestic 
attachments  a  finer  tone  and  touch.  They  can- 
not shoot  out  tendrils  into  barren  world-soil, 
and  suck  up  thence  strengthening  nourishment. 
They  have  grown  under  the  forcing-glass  of 
home-roof :  they  will  not  now  bear  exposure. 

You  do  not  now  look  men  in  the  face  as  if 
a  heart-bond  was  linking  you— as  if  a  com- 
munity of  feeling  lay  between.  There  is  a 
heart-bond  that  absorbs  all  others;  there  is  a 

32 


ASHES— SIGNIFYING    DESOLATION 

community  that  monopolizes  your  feeling. 
When  the  heart  lay  wide  open,  before  it  had 
grown  upon  and  closed  around  particular  ob- 
jects, it  could  take  strength  and  cheer  from  a 
hundred  connections  that  now  seem  colder 
than  ice. 

And  now  those  particular  objects,  alas  for 
you !  are  failing. 

What  anxiety  pursues  you!  How  you 
struggle  to  fancy— there  is  no  danger;  how 
she  struggles  to  persuade  you— there  is  no 
danger ! 

How  it  grates  now  on  your  ear— the  toil  and 
turmoil  of  the  city!  It  was  music  when  you 
were  alone;  it  was  pleasant  even,  when  from 
the  din  you  were  elaborating  comforts  for  the 
cherished  objects, — when  you  had  such  sweet 
escape  as  evening  drew  on. 

Now  it  maddens  you  to  see  the  world  care- 
less while  you  are  steeped  in  care.  They  hustle 
you  in  the  street ;  they  smile  at  you  across  the 
table;  they  bow  carelessly  over  the  way;  they 
do  not  know  what  canker  is  at  your  heart. 

The  undertaker  comes  with  his  bill  for  the 
dead  boy's  funeral.  He  knows  your  grief ;  he 
is  respectful.  You  bless  him  in  your  soul. 
You  wish  the  laughing  street-goers  were  all 
undertakers. 

33 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

Your  eye  follows  the  physician  as  he  leaves 
your  house :  is  he  wise?  you  ask  yourself ;  is  he 
prudent?  is  he  the  best?  Did  he  never  fail; 
is  he  never  forgetful  ? 

And  now  the  hand  that  touches  yours — is  it 
no  thinner,  no  whiter  than  yesterday  ?  Sunny 
days  come  when  she  revives ;  color  comes  back ; 
she  breathes  freer ;  she  picks  flowers ;  she  meets 
you  with  a  smile :  hope  lives  again. 

But  the  next  day  of  storm  she  is  fallen.  She 
cannot  talk  even ;  she  presses  your  hand. 

You  hurry  away  from  business  before  your 
time.  What  matter  for  clients ;  who  is  to  reap 
the  rewards?  What  matter  for  fame;  whose 
eye  will  it  brighten  ?  What  matter  for  riches ; 
whose  is  the  inheritance? 

You  find  her  propped  with  pillows;  she  is 
looking  over  a  little  picture-book  bethumbed 
by  the  dear  boy  she  has  lost.  She  hides  it  in 
her  chair;  she  has  pity  on  you. 

Another  day  of  revival,  when  the 

spring  sun  shines,  and  flowers  open  out-of- 
doors;  she  leans  on  your  arm,  and  strolls  into 
the  garden  where  the  first  birds  are  singing. 
Listen  to  them  with  her;  what  memories  are 
in  bird-songs!  You  need  not  shudder  at  her 
tears;  they  are  tears  of  Thanksgiving.  'Press 
the  hand  that  lies  light  upon  your  arm,  and 
you,  too,  thank  God,  while  yet  you  may. 

34 


ASHES— SIGNIFYING    DESOLATION 

You  are  early  home — mid-afternoon.  Your 
step  is  not  light ;  it  is  heavy,  terrible. 

They  have  sent  for  you. 

She  is  lying  down,  her  eyes  half  closed,  her 
breathing  slow  and  interrupted. 

She  hears  you ;  her  eye  opens ;  you  put  your 
hand  in  hers;  yours  trembles;  hers  does  not. 
Her  lips  move :  it  is  your  name. 

"Be  strong,"  she  says;  "God  will  help  you." 

She  presses  harder  your  hand :  "Adieu !" 

A  long  breath, — another;  you  are  alone 
again.  No  tears  now;  poor  man!  you  cannot 
find  them. 

Again  home  early.  There  is  a  smell  of 

varnish  in  your  house.  A  coffin  is  there;  they 
have  clothed  the  body  in  decent  grave-clothes, 
and  the  undertaker  is  screwing  down  the  lid, 
slipping  round  on  tiptoe.  Does  he  fear  to 
waken  her? 

He  asks  you  a  simple  question  about  the  in- 
scription upon  the  plate,  rubbing  it  with  his 
coat-cuff.  You  look  him  straight  in  the  eye; 
you  motion  to  the  door ;  you  dare  not  speak. 

He  takes  up  his  hat,  and  glides  out  stealth- 
ful  as  a  cat. 

The  man  has  done  his  work  well  for  all.  It 
is  a  nice  coffin,  a  very  nice  coffin.  Pass  your 
hand  over  it ;  how  smooth ! 

35 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

Some  sprigs  of  mignonette  are  lying  care- 
lessly in  a  little  gilt-edged  saucer.  She  loved 
mignonette. 

It  is  a  good  stanch  table  the  coffin  rests  on ; 
it  is  your  table ;  you  are  a  housekeeper,  a  man 
of  family. 

Aye,  of  family!  keep  down  outcry,  or  the 
nurse  will  be  in.  Look  over  at  the  pinched 
features;  is  this  all  that  is  left  of  her?  And 
where  is  your  heart  now?  No,  don't  thrust 
your  nails  into  your  hands,  nor  mangle  your 
lip,  nor  grate  your  teeth  together.  If  you 
could  only  weep ! 

Another  day.  The  coffin  is  gone  out. 

The  stupid  mourners  have  wept— what  idle 
tears !  She  with  your  crushed  heart,  has  gone 
out. 

Will  you  have  pleasant  evenings  at  your 
home  now  ? 

Go  into  your  parlor  that  your  prim  house- 
keeper has  made  comfortable  with  clean  hearth 
and  blaze  of  sticks. 

Sit  down  in  your  chair;  there  is  another 
velvet-cushioned  one,  over  against  yours, 
empty.  You  press  your  fingers  on  your  eye- 
balls, as  if  you  would  press  out  something  that 
hurt  the  brain;  but  you  cannot.  Your  head 
leans  upon  your  hand ;  your  eye  rests  upon  the 
flashing  Blaze. 

36 


ASHES— SIGNIFYING    DESOLATION 

Ashes  always  come  after  Blaze. 

Go  now  into  the  room  where  she  was  sick, — 
softly,  lest  the  prim  housekeeper  come  after. 

They  have  put  new  dimity  upon  Her  chair; 
they  have  hung  new  curtains  over  the  bed. 
They  have  removed  from  the  stand  its  phials, 
and  silver  bell;  they  have  put  a  little  vase  of 
flowers  in  their  place;  the  perfume  will  not 
offend  the  sick  sense  now.  They  have  half 
opened  the  window,  that  the  room  so  long 
closed  may  have  air.  It  will  not  be  too  cold. 

She  is  not  there. 

Oh  God!  thou  who  dost  temper  the 

wind  to  the  shorn  lamb,  be  kind! 

The  embers  were  dark:  I  stirred  them; 
there  was  no  sign  of  life.  My  dog  was  asleep. 
The  clock  in  my  tenant's  chamber  had  struck 
one. 

I  dashed  a  tear  or  two  from  my  eyes;  how 
they  came  there  I  know  not.  I  half  ejaculated 
a  prayer  of  thanks  that  such  desolation  had 
not  yet  come  nigh  me,  and  a  prayer  of  hope 
that  it  might  never  come. 

In  a  half  hour  more  I  was  sleeping  soundly. 
My  Reverie  was  ended. 


37 


SECOND  REVERIE 

SEA-COAL  AND  ANTHRACITE 


BY  A  CITY  GRATE 


BLESSED  be  letters ! — they  are  the  moni- 
tors, they  are  also  the  comforters,  and 
they   are   the  only  true  heart-talkers. 
Your  speech,  and  their  speeches,  are  conven- 
tional;   they   are  moulded   by   circumstance; 
they  are  suggested  by  the  observation,  remark, 
and  influence  of  the  parties  to  whom  the  speak- 
ing is  addressed,  or  by  whom  it  may  be  over- 
heard. 

Your     truest    thought     is     modified     half 
through  its  utterance  by  a  look,  a  sign,  a  smile, 
or  a  sneer.     It  is  not  individual :  it  is  not  in- 
tegral:  it  is  social  and  mixed, — half  of  you,  [ 
and  half  of  others.    It  bends,  it  sways,  it  mul-  I 
tiplies,  it  retires,  and  it  advances,  as  the  talk 
of  others  presses,  relaxes,  or  quickens. 

But  it  is  not  so  of  Letters.  There  you  are, 
with  only  the  soulless  pen,  and  the  snow-white, 
virgin  paper.  Your  soul  is  measuring  itself 
by  itself,  and  saying  its  own  sayings :  there 
are  no  sneers  to  modify  its  utterance, — no 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

scowl  to  scare ;  nothing  is  present  but  you  and 
your  thought. 

r    Utter  it  then  freely;  write  it  down;  stamp 
it;  burn  it  in  the  ink;— There  it  is,  a  true  soul- 
!  print. 

Ah,  the  glory,  the  freedom,  the  passion  of  a 
letter !  It  is  worth  all  the  lip-talk  in  the  world. 
Do  you  say,  it  is  studied,  made  up,  acted,  re- 
hearsed, contrived,  artistic? 

Let  me  see  it  then;  let  me  run  it  over;  tell 
me  age,  sex,  circumstance,  and  I  will  tell  you 
if  it  be  studied  or  real,— if  it  be  the  merest  lip- 
slang  put  into  words,  or  heart-talk  blazing  on 
the  paper. 

I  have  a  little  packet, — not  very  large, — tied 
up  with  narrow  crimson  ribbon,  now  soiled 
with  frequent  handling,  which  far  into  some 
winter's  night  I  take  down  from  its  nook  upon 
my  shelf,  and  untie,  and  open,  and  run  over, 
with  such  sorrow  and  such  joy,  as  I  am  sure 
make  me  for  weeks  after  a  kindlier  and  hon- 
ester  man. 

There  are  in  this  little  packet,  letters  in  the 
familiar  hand  of  a  mother;— what  gentle 
admonition ;  what  tender  affection !  God  have 
mercy  on  him  who  outlives  the  Sentiment  that 
such  admonitions  and  such  affection  kindle ! 
There  are  others  in  the  budget,  in  the  delicate 

42 


BY  A  CITY  GRATE 

and  unformed  hand  of  a  loved  and  lost  sister,  f 
— written  when  she  and  you  were  full  of  glee, 
and  the  best  mirth  of  youth  fulness-;  does  it 
harm  you  to  recall  that  mir.th fulness?  or  to 
trace  again,  for  the  hundredth  time,  that 
scrawling  postscript  at  the  bottom,  with  its 
i's  so  carefully  dotted,  and  its  gigantic  t's  so 
carefully  crossed,  by  the  childish  hand  of  a 
little  brother  ? 

I  have  added  latterly  to  that  packet  of  let- 
ters. I  almost  need  a  new  and  longer  ribbon ; 
the  old  one  is  getting  too  short.  Not  a  few 
of  these  new  and  cherished  letters  a  former 
Reverie1  has  brought  to  me;  not  letters  of  cold 
praise,  saying  it  was  well  done,  artfully  exe- 
cuted, prettily  imagined;  no  such  thing:  but 
letters  of  sympathy — of  sympathy  which 
means  sympathy— the  vaByiu  and  the  ow. 

It  would  be  cold  and  dastardly  work  to  copy 
them;  I  am  too  selfish  for  that.  It  is  enough 
to  say  that  they,  the  kind  writers,  have  seen 
a  hearty  earnestness  in  the  Reverie, — have  felt 
that  it  was  in  a  certain  sense  real,  and  true. 
What  matters  it,  pray,  if  literally  there  was  no 
wife,  and  no  dead  child,  and  no  coffin,  in  the 

'The  first  Reverie— Smoke,  Flame,  and  Ashes— was 
published  some  months  previous  to  this,  in  the  South- 
ern Literary  Messenger. 

43 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

house?  Is  not  feeling,  feeling;  and  heart, 
heart  ?  Are  not  these  fancies  thronging  on  my 
brain,  bringing  their  own  sorrows,  and  their 
own  joys,  as  living  as  anything  human  can  be 
'•  living?  What  if  they  have  no  material  type— 
,  no  objective  form?  All  that  is  crude— a  mere 
reduction  of  ideality  to  sense,— a  transforma- 
tion of  the  spiritual  to  the  earthy, — a  levelling 
^of  soul  to  matter. 

Are  we  not  creatures  of  thought  and  pas- 
sion ?  Is  anything  about  us  more  earnest  than 
that  same  thought  and  passion  ?  Is  there  any- 
thing more  real, — more  characteristic  of  that 
great  and  dim  destiny  to  which  we  are  born, 
and  which  may  be  written  down  in  that  ter- 
rible word — Forever? 

Let  those  who  will,  then,  sneer  at  what  in 
their  wisdom  they  call  untruth,— at  what  is 
false,  because  it  has  no  material  presence;  this 
does  not  create  falsity;  would  to  Heaven  that 
it  did! 

And  yet,  if  there  was  actual,  material  truth, 
super-added  to  Reverie,  would  such  objectors 
sympathize  the  more  ?  No :  a  thousand  times, 
no;  the  heart  that  has  no  sympathy  with 
thoughts  and  feelings  that  scorch  the  soul,  is 
dead  also — whatever  its  mocking  gestures  may 
say — to  a  coffin  or  a  grave. 

44 


BY  A  CITY  GRATE 

Let  them  pass,  and  we  will  come  back  to 
these  cherished  letters. 

A  mother,  who  has  lost  a  child,  has,  she 
says,  shed  a  tear — not  one,  but  many — over 
the  dead  boy's  coldness.  And  another,  who 
has  not  lost,  but  who  trembles  lest  she  lose, 
has  found  the  words  failing  as  she  read,  and 
a  dim,  sorrow-borne  mist  spreading  over  the 
page. 

Another,  yet  rejoicing  in  all  those  family 
ties  that  make  life  a  charm,  has  listened  nerv- 
ously to  careful  reading,  until  the  husband  is 
called  home,  and  the  coffin  is  in  the  house. 
"Stop!"  she  says;  and  a  deep  sob  tells  the  rest. 

Yet  the  cold  critic  will  say,  "It  was  artfully 
done."  A  curse  on  him !  it  was  not  art :  it  was 
nature. 

Another,  a  young,  fresh,  healthful  girl- 
mind,  has  seen  something  in  the  love-picture 
—albeit  so  weak— of  truth;  and  has  kindly 
believed  that  it  must  be  earnest.  Aye,  indeed 
is  it,  fair  and  generous  one,  earnest  as  life  and 
hope.  Who,  indeed,  with  a  heart  at  all,  that 
has  not  yet  slipped  away  irreparably  and  for- 
ever from  the  shores  of  youth,— from  that 
fairy  land  which  young  enthusiasm  creates, 
and  over  which  bright  dreams  hover,— but 
knows  it  to  be  real?  And  so  such  things  will 

45 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

be  real,  till  hopes  are  dashed,  and  Death  is 
come. 

Another,  a  father,  has  laid  down  the  book, 
overcome  by  its  story  of  his  own  griefs. 

—God  bless  them  all!  I  count  this  better 
than  the  cold  praise  of  newspaper  paragraphs, 
or  the  critically  contrived  approval  of  colder 
friends. 

Let  me  gather  up  these  letters  carefully,  to 
be  read  when  the  heart  is  faint  and  sick  of  all 
that  there  is  unreal  and  selfish  in  the  world. 
Let  me  tie  them  together  with  a  new  and  longer 
bit  of  ribbon;  not  by  a  love-knot,  that  is  too 
hard;  but  by  an  easy  slipping  knot,  that  so  I 
may  get  at  them  the  better.  And  now  they  are 
all  together,  a  snug  packet,  and  we  will  label 
them,  not  sentimentally  (I  pity  the  one  who 
thinks  it),  but  earnestly,  and  in  the  best  mean- 
ing of  the  term,— SOUVENIRS  DU  CCEUR. 

Thanks  to  my  first  Reverie,  which  has  added 
to  this  cherished  budget  of  letters. 

—And  now  to  my  SECOND  REVERIE. 

I  am  no  longer  in  the  country.  The  fields, 
the  trees,  the  brooks  are  far  away  from  me, 
and  yet  they  are  very  present.  A  letter  from 
my  tenant— how  different  from  those  other  let- 
ters— lies  upon  my  table,  telling  me  what  fields 
he  has  broken  up  for  the  autumn  grain,  and 

46 


BY  A  CITY  GRATE 

how  many  beeves  he  is  fattening,  and  how  the 
potatoes  are  turning  out. 

But  I  am  in  a  garret  of  the  city.  Fipm  my 
window  I  look  over  a  mass  of  crowded  house- 
tops,—moralizing  often  upon  the  scene,  but  in 
a  strain  too  long  and  sombre  to  be  set  down 
here.  In  place  of  the  wide  country  chimney, 
with  its  iron  fire-dogs,  is  a  snug  grate,  where 
the  maid  makes  for  me  a  fire  in  the  morning, 
and  rekindles  it  in  the  afternoon. 

I  am  usually  fairly  seated  in  my  chair— a 
cosily  stuffed  office-chair— by  five  or  six 
o'clock  of  the  evening.  The  fire  has  been 
newly  made,  perhaps  an  hour  before :  first,  the 
maid  drops  a  wisp  of  paper  in  the  bottom  of  the 
grate,  then  a  stick  or  two  of  pine-wood,  and 
after  it  a  hod  of  Liverpool  coal ;  so  that  by  the 
time  I  am  seated  for  the  evening,  the  Sea-coal 
is  fairly  in  a  blaze. 

When  this  has  sunk  to  a  level  with  the  sec- 
ond bar  of  the  grate,  the  maid  replenishes  it 
with  a  hod  of  Anthracite ;  and  I  sit  musing  and 
reading,  while  the  new  coal  warms  and 
kindles ;  not  leaving  my  place,  until  it  has  sunk 
to  the  third  bar  of  the  grate,  which  marks  my 
bedtime. 

I  love  these  accidental  measures  of  the 
hours,  which  belong  to  you,  and  your  life,  and 

47 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

not  to  the  world.  A  watch  is  no  more  the 
measure  of  your  time  than  of  the  time  of  your 
neighbors;  a  church-clock  is  as  public  and  vul- 
gar as  a  church-warden.  I  would  as  soon 
think  of  hiring  the  parish  sexton  to  make  my 
bed,  as  to  regulate  my  time  by  the  parish  clock. 

A  shadow  that  the  sun  casts  upon  your 
carpet,  or  a  streak  of  light  on  a  slated  roof 
yonder,  or  the  burning  of  your  fire,  are 
pleasant  time-keepers,— full  of  presence,,  full 
of  companionship,  and  full  of  warning — time 
is  passing ! 

In  the  summer  season  I  have  even  measured 
my  reading,  and  my  night-watch,  by  the  burn- 
ing of  a  taper;  and  I  have  scratched  upon  the 
handle  to  the  little  bronze  taper-holder  that 
meaning  passage  of  the  New  Testament, — 
Nv£  yap  cpxcrat,— the  night  cometh ! 

But  I  must  get  upon  my  Reverie.  It  was  a 
drizzly  evening ;  I  had  worked  hard  during  the 
day,  and  had  drawn  my  boots,  thrust  my  feet 
into  slippers,  thrown  on  a  Turkish  loose  dress 
and  Greek  cap,  souvenirs  to  me  of  other  times 
and  other  places, — and  sat  watching  the  lively, 
uncertain  yellow  play  of  the  bituminous  flame. 


I 

SEA-COAL 

IT  is  like  a  flirt,  mused  I:  lively,  uncertain, 
bright-colored,  waving  here  and  there,  melting 
the  coal  into  black,  shapeless  mass;  making 
foul,  sooty  smoke,  and  pasty,  trashy  residuum. 
Yet  withal,  making  flame  that  is  pleasantly 
sparkling,  dancing,  prettily  waving,  and  leap- 
ing like  a  roebuck  from  point  to  point. 

How  like  a  flirt!  And  yet  is  not  that  toss- 
ing caprice  of  girlhood,  to  which  I  liken  my 
Sea-coal  flame,  a  natural  play  of  life,  and  be- 
longing by  nature  to  the  play-time  of  life?  Is 
it  not  a  sort  of  essential  fire-kindling  to  the 
weightier  and  truer  passions,  even  as  Jenny 
puts  the  Sea-coal  first,  the  better  to  kindle  the 
Anthracite?  Is  it  not  a  sort  of  necessary  con- 
sumption of  young  vapors,  which  float  in  the 
soul,  and  which  is  left  thereafter  the  purer? 
Is  there  not  a  stage  somewhere  in  every  man's 
youth  for  just  such  waving,  idle  heart-blaze, 
which  means  nothing,  yet  which  must  be  gone 
over? 

Lamartine  says  somewhere,  very  prettily, 
that  there  is  more  of  quick-running  sap  and 

49 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

floating  shade  in  a  young  tree,  but  more  of 
fire  in  the  heart  of  a  sturdy  oak :— "//  3;  a  plus 
de  seve  foils  et  d' ombre  flottante  dans  les 
jeunes  plants  de  la  foret;  il  y  a  plus  de  feu  dans 
le  vieux  cceur  du  chene" 

Is  Lamartine  playing  off  his  prettiness  of 
expression,  dressing  up  with  his  poetry,— 
making  a  good  conscience  against  the  ghost 
of  some  accusing  Graziella,— or  is  there  truth 
in  the  matter  ? 

A  man  who  has  seen  sixty  years,  whether 
widower  or  bachelor,  may  well  put  such  senti- 
ment into  words :  it  feeds  his  wasted  heart 
with  hope;  it  renews  the  exultation  of  youth 
by  the  pleasantest  of  equivocation,  and  the 
most  charming  of  self-confidence.  But,  after 
all,  is  it  not  true?  Is  not  the  heart  like  new 
blossoming  field-plants,  whose  first  flowers  are 
half  formed,  one-sided  perhaps,  but  by-and-by, 
in  maturity  of  season,  putting  out  wholesome, 
well-formed  blossoms,  that  will  hold  their 
petals  long  and  bravely? 

Bulwer,  in  his  story  of  the  Caxtons,  has 
counted  first  heart-flights  mere  fancy  passages, 
—a  dalliance  with  the  breezes  of  love, — which 
pass,  and  leave  healthful  heart-appetite.  Half 
the  reading  world  has  read  the  story  of  Tre- 
vanion  and  Pisistratus.  But  Bulwer  is — past; 

50 


SEA-COAL 

his  heart-life  is  used  up—epuise.  Such  a  man 
can  very  safely  rant  about  the  cool  judgment 
of  after-years. 

Where  does  Shakspeare  put  the  unripe 
heartage?  All  of  it  before  the  ambition,  that 
alone  makes  the  hero-soul.  The  Shakspeare 
man  "sighs  like  a  furnace,"  before  he  stretches 
his  arm  to  achieve  the  "bauble,  reputation." 

Yet  Shakspeare  has  meted  a  soul  love,  ma- 
ture and  ripe,  without  any  young  furnace- 
sighs,  to  Desdemona  and  Othello.  Cordelia, 
one  of  the  sweetest  of  his  creations,  loves  with- 
out any  of  the  mawkish  matter  which  makes 
the  whining  love  of  a  Juliet.  And  Florizel, 
in  the  "Winter's  Tale,"  says  to  Perdita,  in  the 
true  spirit  of  a  most  sound  heart,— 

"My  desires 

Run  not  before  mine  honor,  nor  my  lusts 
Burn  hotter  than  my  faith." 

How  is  it  with  Hector  and  Andromache? 
No  Sea-coal  blaze,  but  one  that  is  constant, 
enduring,  pervading:  a  pair  of  hearts  full  of 
esteem  and  best  love,— good,  honest,  and 
sound. 

Look  now  at  Adam  and  Eve,  in  God's  pres- 
ence, with  Milton  for  showman.  Shall  we 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

quote  by  this  sparkling  blaze,  a  gem  from  the 
"Paradise  Lost"?  We  will  hum  it  to  our- 
selves,—what  Raphael  sings  to  Adam, — a 
classic  song:— 

"Him,  serve  and  fear ! 
Of  other  creatures,  as  Him  pleases  best 
Wherever  placed,  let  Him  dispose;  joy  thou 
In  what  he  gives  to  thee,  this  Paradise 
And  thy  fair  Eve  I" 

And  again  :— 

"Love  refines 

The  thoughts  and  heart  enlarges :  hath  his  seat 
In  reason,  and  is  judicious :  is  the  scale 
By  which  to  Heavenly  love  thou  mayst  ascend !" 

None  of  the  playing  sparkle  in  this  love, 
which  belongs  to  the  flame  of  my  Sea-coal  fire, 
that  is  now  dancing,  lively  as  a  cricket.  But 
on  looking  about  my  garret-chamber,  I  can 
see  nothing  that  resembles  the  archangel 
Raphael,  or  "thy  fair  Eve." 

There  is  a  degree  of  moisture  about  the  Sea- 
coal  flame,  which,  with  the  most  earnest  of  my 
musing,  I  find  it  impossible  to  attach  to  that 
idea  of  a  waving,  sparkling  heart  which  my 
fire  suggests.  A  damp  heart  must  be  a  foul 
thing  to  be  sure.  But  whoever  heard  of  one? 

52 


SEA-COAL 

Wordsworth,  somewhere  in  the  "Excur- 
sion," says : — 

"The  good  die  first, 

And  they  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust 
Burn  to  the  socket !" 

What,  in  the  name  of  Rydal  Mount,  is  a  dry 
heart?  A  dusty  one,  I  can  conceive  of:  a 
bachelor's  heart  must  be  somewhat  dusty,  as  he 
nears  the  sixtieth  summer  of  his  pilgrimage; 
and  hung  over  with  cobwebs,  in  which  sit  such 
watchful  gray  old  spiders  as  Avarice  and  Sel- 
fishness, forever  on  the  lookout  for  such  bottle- 
green  flies  as  Lust. 

"I  will  never,"  said  I,  griping  at  the  elbows 
of  my  chair,  "live  a  bachelor  till  sixty :  never, 
so  surely  as  there  is  hope  in  man,  or  charity  in 
woman,  or  faith  in  both !" 

And  with  that  thought,  my  heart  leaped 
about  in  playful  coruscations,  even  like  the 
flame  of  the  Sea-coal—rising  and  wrapping 
round  old  and  tender  memories,  and  images 
that  were  present  to  me,  trying  to  cling,  and 
yet  no  sooner  fastened  than  off ;  dancing  again, 
riotous  in  its  exultation, — a  succession  of 
heart-sparkles,  blazing,  and  going  out. 

— And  is  there  not,  mused  I,  a  portion  of 
this  world  forever  blazing  in  just  such  lively 

53 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

sparkles,  waving  here  and  there  as  the  air-cur- 
rents fan  them? 

Take,  for  instance,  your  heart  of  sentiment 
and  quick  sensibility,— a  weak,  warm- working 
heart,  flying  off  in  tangents  of  unhappy  influ- 
ence, unguided  by  prudence,  and  perhaps 
virtue.  There  is  a  paper  by  Mackenzie  in  the 
Mirror  for  April,  1780,  which  sets  this  untow- 
ard sensibility  in  a  strong  light. 

And  the  more  it  is  indulged,  the  more  strong 
and  binding  such  a  habit  of  sensibility  becomes. 
Poor  Mackenzie  himself  must  have  suffered 
thus;  you  cannot  read  his  books  without  feel- 
ing it ;  your  eye,  in  spite  of  you,  runs  over  with 
his  sensitive  griefs,  while  you  are  half  ashamed 
of  his  success  at  picture-making.  It  is  a  ter- 
rible inheritance,  and  one  that  a  strong  man  or 
woman  will  study  to  subdue ;  it  is  a  vain  Sea- 
coal  sparkling,  which  will  count  no  good.  The 
world  is  made  of  much  hard,  flinty  substance, 
against  which  your  better  and  holier  thoughts 
will  be  striking  fire :  see  to  it  that  the  sparks  do 
not  burn  you. 

But  what  a  happy  careless  life  belongs  to 
this  Bachelorhood,  in  which  you  may  strike 
out  boldly  right  and  left.  Your  heart  is  not 
bound  to  another  which  may  be  full  of  only 
sickly  vapors  of  feeling;  nor  is  it  frozen  to  a 
cold  man's  heart  under  a  silk  bodice,  knowing 

54 


SEA-COAL 

nothing  of  tenderness  but  the  name,  to  prate 
of;  and  nothing  of  soul-confidence,  but  clumsy 
confession.  And  if,  in  your  careless  outgoings 
of  feeling,  you  get  here  only  a  little  lip  vapid- 
ity in  return,  be  sure  that  you  will  find  else- 
where an  honest-hearted  utterance.  This  last 
you  will  cherish  in  your  inner  soul,  a  nucleus 
for  a  new  group  of  affections;  and  the  other 
will  pass  with  a  whiff  of  your  cigar. 

Or  if  your  feelings  are  touched,  struck,  hurt, 
who  is  the  wiser,  or  the  worse,  but  you  only? 
And  have  you  not  the  whole  skein  of  your 
heart-life  in  your  own  fingers,  to  wind  or  un- 
wind in  what  shape  you  please?  Shake  it, 
or  twine  it,  or  tangle  it,  by  the  light  of  your 
fire,  as  you  fancy  best.  He  is  a  weak  man  who 
cannot  twist  and  weave  the  threads  of  his  feel- 
ing—however fine,  however  tangled,  however 
strained,  or  however  strong— into  the  great 
cable  of  Purpose,  by  which  he  lies  moored  to 
his  life  of  Action. 

Reading  is  a  great  and  happy  disentangler 
of  all  those  knotted  snarls— those  extravagant 
vagaries,  which  belong  to  a  heart  sparkling 
with  sensibility;  but  the  reading  must  be  cau- 
tiously directed.  There  is  old  placid  Burton, 
when  your  soul  is  weak  and  its  digestion  of 
life's  humors  is  bad;  there  is  Cowper,  when 
your  spirit  runs  into  kindly,  half-sad,  religious 

55 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

musing;  there  is  Crabbe,  when  you  would 
shake  off  vagary,  by  a  little  handling  of  sharp 
actualities.  There  is  Voltaire,  a  homoeopathic 
doctor,  whom  you  can  read  when  you  want  to 
make  a  play  of  life,  and  crack  jokes  at  Nature, 
and  be  witty  with  Destiny;  there  is  Rousseau, 
when  you  want  to  lose  yourself  in  a  mental 
dream-land,  and  be  beguiled  by  the  harmony 
of  soul-music  and  soul-culture. 

And  when  you  would  shake  off  this,  and  be 
sturdiest  among  the  battlers  for  hard  world- 
success,  and  be  forewarned  of  rocks  against 
which  you  must  surely  smite, — read  Boling- 
broke;  run  over  the  letters  of  Lyttleton;  read, 
and  think  of  what  you  read,  in  the  cracking 
lines  of  Rochefoucauld.  How  he  sums  us  up 
in  his  stinging  words !  how  he  puts  the  scalpel 
between  the  nerves !  yet  he  never  hurts,  for  he 
is  dissecting  dead  matter. 

If  you  are  in  a  genial,  careless  mood,  who  is 
better  than  such  extemporizers  of  feeling  and 
nature— good-hearted  fellows— as  Sterne  and 
Fielding? 

And  then  again,  there  are  Milton  and  Isaiah, 
to  lift  up  one's  soul  until  it  touches  cloud-land, 
and  you  wander  with  their  guidance,  on  swift 
feet,  to  the  very  gates  of  heaven. 

But  this  sparkling  sensibility  to  one  strug- 

56 


SEA-COAL 

gling  under  infirmity,  or  with  grief  or  poverty, 
is  very  dreadful.  The  soul  is  too  nicely  and  too 
keenly  hinged  to  be  wrenched  without  mischief. 
How  it  shrinks  like  a  hurt  child,  from  all  that 
is  vulgar,  harsh,  and  crude!  Alas,  for  such  a 
man !  he  will  be  buffeted  from  beginning  to 
end;  his  life  will  be  a  sea  of  troubles.  The 
poor  victim  of  his  own  quick  spirit,  he  wanders 
with  a  great  shield  of  doubt  hung  before  him, 
so  that  none,  not  even  friends,  can  see  the 
goodness  of  such  kindly  qualities  as  belong  to 
him.  Poverty,  if  it  comes  upon  him,  he  wres- 
tles with  in  secret,  with  strong,  frenzied  strug- 
gles. He  wraps  his  scant  clothes  about  him 
to  keep  him  from  the  cold;  and  eyes  the  world 
as  if  every  creature  in  it  were  breathing  chill 
blasts  at  him  from  every  opened  mouth.  He 
threads  the  crowded  ways  of  the  city,  proud 
in  his  griefs,  vain  in  his  weakness,  not  stop- 
ping to  do  good.  Bulwer,  in  the  "New 
Timon,"  has  painted,  in  a  pair  of  stinging 
Pope-like  lines,  this  feeling  in  a  woman:— 

"What  had  been  pride,  a  kind  of  madness  grown, 
She  hugged  her  wrongs,  her  sorrow  was  her 
throne !" 

Cold  picture!  yet  the  heart  was  sparkling 

57 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

under  it,  like  my  Sea-coal  fire, — lifting  and 
blazing,  and  lighting  and  falling, — but  with  no 
object,  and  only  such  little  heat  as  begins  and 
ends  within. 

Those  fine  sensibilities,  ever  active,  are  chas- 
ing and  observing  all;  they  catch  a  hue  from 
what  the  dull  and  callous  pass  by  unnoticed — 
because  unknown.  They  blunder  at  the  great 
variety  of  the  world's  opinions ;  they  see  tokens 
'"  of  belief  where  others  see  none.  That  delicate 
organization  is  a  curse  to  a  man ;  and  yet,  poor 
fool,  he  does  not  see  where  his  cure  lies;  he 
wonders  at  his  griefs,  and  has  never  reckoned 
with  himself  their  source.  He  studies  others, 
without  studying  himself.  He  eats  the  leaves 
that  sicken,  and  never  plucks  up  the  root  that 
will  cure. 

With  a  woman  it  is  worse:  with  her,  this 

delicate  susceptibility  is  like  a  frail  flower,  that 

quivers  at  every  rough  blast  of  heaven;  her 

own  delicacy  wounds  her ;  her  highest  charm  is 

,  perverted  to  a  curse. 

She  listens  with  fear;  she  reads  with  trem- 
bling; she  looks  with  dread.  Her  sympathies 
give  a  tone,  like  the  harp  of  ^Eolus,  to  the 
slightest  breath.  Her  sensibility  lights  up,  and 
quivers  and  falls,  like  the  flame  of  a  Sea-coal  fire. 

If    she   loves,    (and   may   not   a    Bachelor 

58 


SEA-COAL 

reason  on  this  daintiest  of  topics,)  her  love  is 
a  gushing,  wavy  flame,  lit  up  with  hope,  that 
has  only  a  little  kindling  matter  to  light  it; 
and  this  soon  burns  out.  Yet  intense  sensibility 
will  persuade  her  that  the  flame  still  scorches. 
She  will  mistake  the  annoyance  of  affection 
unrequited  for  the  sting  of  a  passion  that  she 
fancies  still  burns.  She  does  not  look  deep 
enough  to  see  that  the  passion  is  gone,  and  the 
shocked  sensitiveness  emits  only  faint,  yellow- 
ish sparkles  in  its  place;  her  high- wrought 
organization  makes  those  sparks  seem  a  veri- 
table flame. 

With  her,  judgment,  prudence,  and  discre- 
tion are  cold,  measured  terms,  which  have  no 
meaning,  except  as  they  attach  to  the  actions 
of  others.  Of  her  own  acts,  she  never  predi- 
cates them ;  feeling  is  much  too  high,  to  allow 
her  to  submit  to  any  such  obtrusive  guides  of 
conduct.  She  needs  disappointment  to  teach 
her  truth,— to  teach  that  all  is  not  gold  that 
glitters,— to  teach  that  all  warmth  does  not 
blaze.  But  let  her  beware  how  she  sinks  under 
any  fancied  disappointments:  she  who  sinks 
under  real  disappointment  lacks  philosophy; 
but  she  who  sinks  under  a  fancied  one  lacks 
purpose.  Let  her  flee  as  the  plague  such 
brooding  thoughts  as  she  will  love  to  cherish  ; 

59 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

let  her  spurn  dark  fancies  as  the  visitants  of 
hell;  let  the  soul  rise  with  the  blaze  of  new- 
kindled,  active,  and  world-wide  emotions,  and 
so  brighten  into  steady  and  constant  flame. 
Let  her  abjure  such  poets  as  Cowper,  or 
Byron,  or  even  Wordsworth;  and  if  she  must 
poetize,  let  her  lay  her  mind  to  such  manly 
verse  as  Pope's,  or  to  such  sound  and  ringing 
organry  as  Comus. 

My  fire  was  getting  dull,  and  I  thrust  in  the 
poker :  it  started  up  on  the  instant  into  a  hun- 
dred little  angry  tongues  of  flame. 

—Just  so,  thought  I,  the  over-sensitive 
heart,  once  cruelly  disturbed,  will  fling  out  a 
score  of  flaming  passions,  darting  here  and 
darting  there,  half  smoke,  half  flame, — love 
and  hate,  canker  and  joy, — wild  in  its  mad- 
ness, not  knowing  whither  its  sparks  are  flying. 
Once  break  roughly  upon  the  affections,  or 
even  the  fancied  affections  of  such  a  soul,  and 
you  breed  a  tornado  of  maddened  action,— a 
whirlwind  of  fire  that  hisses,  and  sends  out 
jets  of  wild,  impulsive  combustion,  that  make 
the  by-standers,  even  those  most  friendly,  stand 
aloof  until  the  storm  is  past. 

But  this  is  not  all  that  the  dashing  flame  of 
my  Sea-coal  suggests. 

How  like  a  flirt !  mused  I  again,  recur- 

60 


SEA-COAL 

ring  to  my  first  thought :  so  lively,  yet  uncer- 
tain; so  bright,  yet  so  flickering!  Your  true 
flirt  plays  with  sparkles;  her  heart,  much  as 
there  is  of  it,  spends  itself  in  sparkles;  she 
measures  it  to  sparkle,  and  habit  grows  into 
nature,  so  that  anon  it  can  only  sparkle.  How 
carefully  she  cramps  it,  if  the  flames  show  too 
great  a  heat;  how  dexterously  she  flings  its 
blaze  here  and  there ;  how  coyly  she  subdues  it ; 
how  winningly  she  lights  it! 

All  this  is  the  entire  reverse  of  the  unpre- 
meditated dartings  of  the  soul  at  which  I  have 
been  looking;  sensibility  scorns  heart-curbings 
and  heart-teachings;  sensibility  inquires  not, 
how  much  ?  but  only  where  ? 

Your  true  flirt  has  a  coarse-grained  soul; 
well  modulated  and  well  tutored,  but  there  is 
no  fineness  in  it.  All  its  native  fineness  is 
made  coarse  by  coarse  efforts  of  the  will. 
True  feeling  is  a  rustic  vulgarity  the  flirt  does 
not  tolerate ;  she  counts  its  healthiest  and  most 
honest  manifestation  all  sentiment.  Yet  she 
will  play  you  off  a  pretty  string  of  sentiment 
which  she  has  gathered  from  the  poets; 
she  adjusts  it  prettily  as  a  Gobelin  weaver  ad- 
justs the  colors  in  his  broidery.  She  shades  it 
off  delightfully;  there  are  no  bold  contrasts, 
but  a  most  artistic  mellowing  of  nuances. 

61 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

She  smiles  like  a  wizard,  and  jingles  it  with 
a  laugh,  such  as  tolled  the  poor  home-bound 
Ulysses  to  the  Circean  bower.  She  has  a  cast 
of  the  head,  apt  and  artful  as  the  most  dexter- 
ous cast  of  the  best  trout-killing  rod.  Her 
words  sparkle,  and  flow  hurriedly,  and  with 
the  prettiest  doubleness  of  meaning.  Natural- 
ness she  copies,  and  she  scorns.  She  accuses 
herself  of  a  single  expression  or  regard,  which 
nature  prompts.  She  prides  herself  on  her 

r  schooling.  She  measures  her  wit  by  the 
triumphs  of  her  art ;  she  chuckles  over  her  own 
falsity  to  herself.  And  if  by  chance  her  soul— 
such  germ  as  is  left  of  it— betrays  her  into  un- 
toward confidence,  she  condemns  herself,  as  if 

.  she  had  committed  crime. 

She  is  always  gay,  because  she  has  no  depths 
of  feeling  to  be  stirred.  The  brook  that  runs 
shallow  over  hard,  pebbly  bottom  always 
rustles.  She  is  light-hearted,  because  her  heart 

V  floats  in  sparkles,  like  my  Sea-coal  fire.  She 
counts  on  marriage,  not  as  the  great  absorbent 
of  a  heart's-love,  and  life,  but  as  a  happy,  feasi- 

.  ble,  and  orderly  conventionality,  to  be  played 
with,  and  kept  at  distance,  and  finally  to  be  ac- 
cepted as  a  cover  for  the  faint  and  tawdry 
sparkles  of  an  old  and  cherished  heartlessness. 
She  will  not  pine  under  any  regrets,  because 

62 


SEA-COAL 

she  has  no  appreciation  of  any  loss;  she  will 
not  chafe  at  indifference,  because  it  is  her  art ; 
she  will  not  be  worried  with  jealousies,  because 
she  is  ignorant  of  love.  With  no  conception 
of  the  soul  in  its  strength  and  fulness,  she  sees 
no  lack  of  its  demands.  A  thrill  she  does  not 
know;  a  passion  she  cannot  imagine;  joy  is  a 
name;  grief  is  another;  and  Life,  with  its 
crowding  scenes  of  love  and  bitterness,  is  a 
play  upon  the  stage. 

I  think  it  is  Madame  Dudevant  who  says,  in 
something  like  the  same  connection : — "Les 
hiboux  ne  connaissent  pas  le  chemin  par  oti  les 
aigles  vont  au  soleil." 

Poor  Ned!  mused  I,  looking  at  the 

play  of  the  fire,  was  a  victim  and  a  conqueror. 
He  was  a  man  of  a  full,  strong  nature,— not 
a  little  impulsive,— with  action  too  full  of  earn- 
estness for  most  of  men  to  see  its  drift.  He 
had  known  little  of  what  is  called  the  world : 
he  was  fresh  in  feeling  and  high  of  hope;  he 
had  been  encircled  always  by  friends  who 
loved  him,  and  who,  maybe,  flattered  him. 
Scarce  had  he  entered  upon  the  tangled  life  of 
the  city,  before  he  met  with  a  sparkling  face 
and  an  airy  step,  that  stirred  something  in 
poor  Ned  that  he  had  never  felt  before.  With 
him,  to  feel  was  to  act.  He  was  not  one  to  be 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

despised ;  for  notwithstanding  he  wore  a  coun- 
try air,  and  the  awkwardness  of  a  man  who 
has  yet  the  bienseance  of  social  life  before  him, 
he  had  the  soul,  the  courage,  and  the  talent  of 
a  strong  man.  Little  gifted  in  the  knowledge 
of  face-play,  he  easily  mistook  those  coy  ma- 
noeuvres of  a  sparkling  heart  for  something 
kindred  to  his  own  true  emotions. 

She  was  proud  of  the  attentions  of  a  man 
who  carried  a  mind  in  his  brain,  and  flattered 
poor  Ned  almost  into  servility.  Ned  had  no 
friends  to  counsel  him ;  or  if  he  had  them,  his 
impulses  would  have  blinded  him.  Never  was 
dodger  more  artful  at  the  Olympic  Games  than 
the  Peggy  of  Ned's  affection.  He  was 
charmed,  beguiled,  entranced. 

When  Ned  spoke  of  love,  she  staved  it  off 
with  the  prettiest  of  sly  looks  that  only  be- 
wildered him  the  more.  A  charming  creature 
to  be  sure;  coy  as  a  dove. 

So  he  went  on,  poor  fool,  until  one  day — he 
told  me  of  it  with  the  blood  mounting  to  his 
temples,  and  his  eye  shooting  flame— he  suf- 
fered his  feelings  to  run  out  in  passionate 
avowal,— entreaty,— everything.  She  gave  a 
pleasant,  noisy  laugh,  and  manifested— such 
pretty  surprise ! 

He  was  looking  for  the  intense  glow  of  pas- 

64 


SEA-COAL 

sion;  and  lo,  there  was  nothing  but  the  shift- 
ing sparkle  of  a  Sea-coal  flame. 

I  wrote  him  a  letter  of  condolence,  for  I  was 
his  senior  by  a  year.  "My  dear  fellow,"  said 
I,  "diet  yourself :  you  can  find  greens  at  the 
up-town  market;  eat  a  little  fish  with  your 
dinner :  abstain  from  heating  drinks ;  don't  put 
too  much  butter  to  your  cauliflower;  read  one 
of  Jeremy  Taylor's  sermons,  and  translate  all 
the  quotations  at  sight ;  run  carefully  over  that 
exquisite  picture  of  Geo.  Dandin  in  your  Mo- 
liere,  and  my  word  for  it,  in  a  week  you  will 
be  a  sound  man." 

He  was  too  angry  to  reply;  but  eighteen 
months  thereafter  I  got  a  thick,  three-sheeted 
letter,  with  a  dove  upon  the  seal,  telling  me 
that  he  was  as  happy  as  a  king.  He  said  he 
had  married  a  good-hearted,  domestic,  loving 
wife,  who  was  as  lovely  as  a  June-day;  and 
that  their  baby,  not  three  months  old,  was  as 
bright  as  a  spot  of  June-day  sunshine  on  the 
grass. 

—What  a  tender,  delicate,  loving  wife, 
mused  I,  such  flashing,  flaming  flirt  must  in 
the  end  make;— the  prostitute  of  fashion;  the 
bauble  of  fifty  hearts  idle  as  hers ;  the  shifting 
makepeace  of  a  stage-scene;  the  actress,  now 
in  peasant,  and  now  in  princely  petticoats. 

65 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

How  it  would  cheer  an  honest  soul  to  call  her 
—his.  What  a  culmination  of  his  heart-life; 
what  a  rich  dream-land  to  be  realized ! 

Bah!  and  I  thrust  the  poker  into  the 

clotted  mass  of  fading  coal ;  just  such,  and  so 
worthless,  is  the  used  heart  of  a  city  flirt ;  just 
so  the  incessant  sparkle  of  her  life,  and  her 
frittering  passions,  fuse  all  that  is  sound  and 
combustible  into  black,  sooty,  shapeless  re- 
siduum. 

When  I  marry  a  flirt  I  will  buy  second-hand 
clothes  of  the  Jews. 

— Still,  mused  I,  as  the  flame  danced  again, 
there  is  a  distinction  between  coquetry  and 
flirtation. 

A  coquette  sparkles,  but  it  is  more  the 
sparkle  of  a  harmless  and  pretty  vanity  than  of 
calculation.  It  is  the  play  of  humors  in  the 
blood,  and  not  the  play  of  purpose  at  the  heart. 
It  will  flicker  around  a  true  soul  like  the  blaze 
around  an  omelette  au  rhum,  leaving  the  kernel 
sounder  and  warmer. 

Coquetry,  with  all  its  pranks  and  teasings, 
makes  the  spice  to  your  dinner— the  mulled 
wine  to  your  supper.  It  will  drive  you  to  des- 
peration, only  to  bring  you  back  hotter  to  the 
fray.  Who  would  boast  a  victory  that  cost  no 
strategy,  and  no  careful  disposition  of  the 

66 


SEA-COAL 

forces?  Who  would  bulletin  such  success  as 
my  Uncle  Toby's,  in  a  back-garden,  with  only 
the  Corporal  Trim  for  assailant  ?  But  let  a 
man  be  very  sure  that  the  city  is  worth  the 
siege ! 

Coquetry  whets  the  appetite;  flirtation  de-  ' 
praves  it.  Coquetry  is  the  thorn  that  guards 
the  rose,— easily  trimmed  off  when  once 
plucked.  Flirtation  is  like  the  slime  on  water- 
plants,  making  them  hard  to  handle,  and  when 
caught,  only  to  be  cherished  in  slimy  waters.  ^ 

And  so,  with  my  eye  clinging  to  the  flicker-- 
ing  Blaze,  I  see  in  my  Reverie  a  bright  one 
dancing  before  me  with  sparkling,  coquettish 
smile  teasing  me  with  the  prettiest  graces  in  the 
world ;  and  I  grow  maddened  between  hope 
and  fear ;  and  still  watch  with  my  whole  soul  in 
my  eyes;  and  see  her  features  by-and-by  relax 
to  pity,  as  a  gleam  of  sensibility  comes  steal- 
ing  over  her  spirit ;  and  then  to  a  kindly,  feel- 
ing regard:  presently  she  approaches,— a  coy 
and  doubtful  approach,— and  throws  back  the 
ringlets  that  lie  over  her  cheek,  and  lays  her 
hand— a  little  bit  of  white  hand— timidly  upon  • 
my  strong  fingers,  and  turns  her  head  daintily ; 
to  one  side,  and  looks  up  in  my  eyes  as  they 
rest  on  the  playing  Blaze ;  and  my  fingers  close 
fast  and  passionately  over  that  little  hand,  like 

67 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

a  swift  night-cloud  shrouding  the  pale  tips  of 
Dian ;  and  my  eyes  draw  nearer  and  nearer  to 
those  blue,  laughing,  pitying,  teasing  eyes,  and 
my  arm  clasps  round  that  shadowy  form,— 
and  my  lips  feel  a  warm  breath— growing 

warmer  and  warmer 

Just  here  the  maid  comes  in,  and  throws 
upon  the  fire  a  panful  of  Anthracite,  and  my 
sparkling  Sea-coal  Reverie  is  ended. 


68 


II 

ANTHRACITE 

IT  does  not  burn  freely,  so  I  put  on  the  blower. 
Quaint  and  good-natured  Xavier  de  Maistre1 
would  have  made,  I  dare  say,  a  pretty  epilogue 
about  a  sheet-iron  blower;  but  I  cannot. 

I  try  to  bring  back  the  image  that  belonged 
to  the  lingering  bituminous  flame,  but  with 
my  eyes  on  that  dark  blower — how  can  I  ? 

It  is  the  black  curtain  of  destiny  which  drops 
down  before  our  brightest  dreams.  How  often 
the  phantoms  of  joy  regale  us,  and  dance  be- 
fore us,  golden-winged,  angel-faced,  heart- 
warming, and  make  an  Elysium  in  which  the 
dreaming  soul  bathes,  and  feels  translated  to 
another  existence;  and  then— sudden  as  night, 
or  a  cloud— a  word,  a  step,  a  thought,  a  mem- 
ory will  chase  them  away,  like  scared  deer 
vanishing  over  a  gray  horizon  of  moor-land.  >. 

I  know  not  justly,  if  it  be  a  weakness  or  a 
sin  to  create  these  phantoms  that  we  love,  and 
to  group  them  into  a  paradise — soul-created. 
But  if  it  is  a  sin,  it  is  a  sweet  and  enchanting 

^Voyage  autour  de  Ma  Chambre. 
69 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

sin;  and  if  it  is  a  weakness,  it  is  a  strong  and 
'  stirring  weakness.  If  this  heart  is  sick  of  the 
falsities  that  meet  it  at  every  hand,  and  is 
eager  to  spend  that  power  which  nature  has 
ribbed  it  with  on  some  object  worthy  of  its 
fulness  and  depth,  shall  it  not  feel  a  rich  relief, 
— nay  more,  an  exercise  in  keeping  with  its 
end,  if  it  flow  out,  strong  as  a  tempest,  wild  as 
a  rushing  river,  upon  those  ideal  creations 
which  imagination  begets,  and  which  are 
tempered  by  our  best  sense  of  beauty,  purity, 
uand  grace? 

Useless,  do  you  say?  Aye,  it  is  as  use- 
less as  the  pleasure  of  looking  hour  upon  hour 
over  bright  landscapes;  it  is  as  useless  as  the 
rapt  enjoyment  of  listening,  with  heart  full 
and  eyes  brimming,  to  such  music  as  the 
Miserere  at  Rome ;  it  is  as  useless  as  the  ecstasy 
of  kindling  your  soul  into  fervor  and  love  and 
madness,  over  pages  that  reek  with  genius. 

There  are  indeed  base-moulded  souls  who 
know  nothing  of  this :  they  laugh ;  they  sneer ; 
they  even  affect  to  pity.  Just  so  the  Huns 
under  the  avenging  Attila,  who  had  been  used 
to  foul  cookery  and  steaks  stewed  under  their 
saddles,  laughed  brutally  at  the  spiced  ban- 
quets of  an  Apicius. 

No,  this  phantom-making  is  no  sin;  or 

70 


ANTHRACITE 

if  it  be,  it  is  sinning  with  a  soul  so  full,  so 
earnest,  that  it  can  cry  to  Heaven  cheerily,  and 
sure  of  a  gracious  hearing,— peccavi—miseri- 
corde! 

But  my  fire  is  in  a  glow,  a  pleasant  glow, 
throwing  a  tranquil,  steady  light  to  the  farth- 
est corner  of  my  garret.  How  unlike  it  is  to 
the  flashing  play  of  the  Sea-coal ;— unlike  as 
an  unsteady,  uncertain-working  heart  to  the 
true  and  earnest  constancy,  of  one  cheerful 
and  right. 

After  all,  thought  I,  give  me  such  a  heart; 
not  bent  on  vanities,  not  blazing  too  sharp  with 
sensibility,  not  throwing  out  coquettish  jets  of 
flame,  not  wavering,  and  meaningless  with 
pretended  warmth,  but  open,  glowing,  and 
strong.  Its  dark  shades  and  angles  it  may 
have;  for  what  is  a  soul  worth  that  does  not 
take  a  slaty  tinge  from  those  griefs  that  chill 
the  blood?  Yet  still  the  fire  is  gleaming;  you 
see  it  in  the  crevices;  and  anon  it  will  give 
radiance  to  the  whole  mass. 

It  hurts  the  eyes,  this  fire;  and  I  draw 

up  a  screen  painted  over  with  rough  but  grace- 
ful figures. 

The  true  heart  wears  always  the  veil  of 
modesty,  (not  of  prudery,  which  is  a  dingy, 
iron,  repulsive  screen).  It  will  not  allow  it- 

71 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

self  to  be  looked  on  too  near, — it  might  scorch ; 
but  through  the  veil  you  feel  the  warmth,  and 
through  the  pretty  figures  that  modesty  will 
robe  itself  in,  you  can  see  all  the  while  the 
golden  outlines,  and  by  that  token  you  knozv 
that  it  is  glowing  and  burning  with  a  pure  and 
steady  flame. 

With  such  a  heart  the  mind  fuses  naturally, 
—a  holy  and  heated  fusion;  they  work  to- 
gether like  twins-born.  With  such  a  heart,  as 
Raphael  says  to  Adam, 

"Love  hath  his  seat 
In  reason,  and  is  judicious." 

But  let  me  distinguish  this  heart  from  your 
clay-cold,  lukewarm,  half-hearted  soul; — 
considerate,  because  ignorant;  judicious,  be- 
cause possessed  of  no  latent  fires  that  need  a 
curb;  prudish,  because  with  no  warm  blood  to 
tempt.  This  sort  of  soul  may  pass  scatheless 
through  the  fiery  furnace  of  life;  strong  only 
in  its  weakness;  pure,  because  of  its  failings; 
and  good  only  by  negation.  It  may  triumph 
over  love,  and  sin,  and  death;  but  it  will  be  a 
triumph  of  the  beast,  which  has  neither  pas- 
sions to  subdue,  nor  energy  to  attack,  nor  hope 
to  quench. 

72 


ANTHRACITE 

Let  us  come  back  to  the  steady  and  earnest 
heart,  glowing  like  my  Anthracite  coal. 

I  fancy  I  see  such  a  one  now;— the^eye  is 
deep,  and  reaches  back  to  the  spirit;  it  is  not 
the  trading  eye,  weighing  your  purse ;  it  is  not 
the  worldly  eye,  weighing  position;  it  is  not 
the  beastly  eye,  weighing  your  appearance;  it/ 
is  the  heart's  eye,  weighing  your  soul. 

It  is  full  of  tender,  and  earnest  feeling.  It 
is  an  eye  which,  looked  on  once,  you  long  to 
look  on  again;  it  is  an  eye  which  will  haunt 
your  dreams, — an  eye  which  will  give  a  color, 
in  spite  of  you,  to  all  your  Reveries.  It  is  an 
eye  which  lies  before  you  in  your  future,  like 
a  star  in  the  mariner's  heaven;  by  it,  uncon- 
sciously, and  from  force  of  deep  soul-habit, 
you  take  all  your  observations.  It  is  meek  and 
quiet;  but  it  is  full  as  a  spring  that  gushes  in 
flood;  an  Aphrodite  and  a  Mercury— a  Vau- 
cluse  and  a  Clitumnus. 

The  face  is  an  angel  face :  no  matter  for 
curious  lines  of  beauty ;  no  matter  for  popular 
talk  of  prettiness;  no  matter  for  its  angles  or 
its  proportions;  no  matter  for  its  color  or  its 
form,— the  soul  is  there,  illuminating  every 
feature,  burnishing  every  point,  hallowing 
every  surface.  It  tells  of  honesty,  sincerity, 
and  worth;  it  tells  of  truth  and  virtue;— and 

73 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

you  clasp  the  image  to  your  heart,  as  the  re- 
ceived ideal  of  your  fondest  dreams. 

The  figure  may  be  this  or  that;  it  may  be 
tall  or  short;  it  matters  nothing,— the  heart  is 
there.  The  talk  may  be  soft  or  low,  serious  or 
piquant,— a  free  and  honest  soul  is  warming 
and  softening  it  all.  As  you  speak,  it  speaks 
back  again;  as  you  think,  it  thinks  again,  (not 
in  conjunction,  but  in  the  same  sign  of  the 
Zodiac;)  as  you  love,  it  loves  in  return. 

It  is  the  heart  for  a  sister,  and  happy 

is  the  man  who  can  claim  such.  The  warmth 
that  lies  in  it  is  not  only  generous,  but  relig- 
ious, genial,  devotional,  tender,  self-sacrificing, 
and  looking  heaven-ward. 

A  man  without  some  sort  of  religion  is  at 
best  a  poor  reprobate,  the  foot-ball  of  destiny, 
with  no  tie  linking  him  to  infinity  and  the 
wondrous  eternity  that  is  begun  with  him; 
'but  a  woman  without  it  is  even  worse, — a 
flame  without  heat,  a  rainbow  without  color,  a 
flower  without  perfume. 

A  man  may  in  some  sort  tie  his  frail  hopes 
and  honor,  with  weak,  shifting  ground-tackle 
to  business,  or  to  the  world;  but  a  woman 
|  without  that  anchor  which  they  call  Faith,  is 
adrift  and  a-wreck.  A  man  may  clumsily  con- 
trive a  kind  of  moral  responsibility  out  of  his 

74 


ANTHRACITE 

relations  to  mankind;  but  a  woman  in  her 
comparatively  isolated  sphere,  where  affection 
and  not  purpose  is  the  controlling  motive,  can 
find  no  basis  for  any  system  of  right  action  but 
that  of  spiritual  faith.  A  man  may  craze  his; 
thought  and  his  brain  to  trustfulness  in  such 
poor  harborage  as  Fame  and  Reputation  may 
stretch  before  him;  but  a  woman— where  can 
she  put  her  hope  in  storms,  if  not  in  Heaven? 

And  that  sweet  trustfulness,  that  abiding 
love,  that  enduring  hope,  mellowing  every  page 
and  scene  of  life,  lighting  them  with  pleasant- 
est  radiance,  when  the  world-storms  break  like 
an  army  with  smoking  cannon,— what  can  be- 
stow it  all  but  a  holy  soul-tie  to  what  is  above 
the  storms,  and  to  what  is  stronger  than  an 
army  with  cannon?  Who  that  has  enjoyed  the 
counsel  and  the  love  of  a  Christian  mother, 
but  will  echo  the  thought  with  energy,  and 
hallow  it  with  a  tear?— et  moi,  je  pleurs! 

My  fire  is  now  a  mass  of  red-hot  coal.  The 
whole  atmosphere  of  my  room  is  warm.  The 
heart  that  with  its  glow  can  light  up  and  warm 
a  garret  with  loose  casements  and  shattered 
roof,  is  capable  of  the  best  love,— domestic  \ 
love.  I  draw  farther  off,  and  the  images  upon 
the  screen  change.  The  warmth,  the  hour, 
the  quiet,  create  a  home  feeling ;  and  that  feel-  ] 

75 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

ing,  quick  as  lightning,  has  stolen  from  the 
world  of  fancy  (a  Promethean  theft)  a  home 
object,  about  which  my  musings  go  on  to  drape 
themselves  in  luxurious  Reverie. 

There  she  sits,  by  the  corner  of  the  fire, 

in  a  neat  home  dress  of  sober,  yet  most  adorn- 
ing color.  A  little  bit  of  lace  ruffle  is  gathered 
about  the  neck  by  a  blue  ribbon;  and  the  ends 
of  the  ribbon  are  crossed  under  the  dimpling 
chin,  and  are  fastened  neatly  by  a  simple,  un- 
pretending brooch,— your  gift.  The  arm,  a 
pretty  taper  arm,  lies  over  the  carved  elbow 
of  the  oaken  chair;  the  hand,  white  and  deli- 
cate, sustains  a  little  home  volume  that  hangs 
from  her  fingers.  The  forefinger  is  between 
the  leaves,  and  the  others  lie  in  relief  upon  the 
dark  embossed  cover.  She  repeats  in  a  silvery 
voice,  a  line  that  has  attracted  her  fancy;  and 
you  listen,— or,  at  any  rate,  you  seem  to  listen, 
—with  your  eyes  now  on  the  lips,  now  on  the 
forehead,  and  now  on  the  finger,  where  glitters 
like  a  star  the  marriage-ring—little  gold  band, 
at  which  she  does  not  chafe— that  tells  you— 
1  she  is  yours ! 

Weak  testimonial,  if  that  were  all  that 

told  it.    The  eye,  the  voice,  the  look,  the  heart, 

tells  you  stronger  and  better,  that  she  is  yours. 

rAnd  a  feeling  within,— where  it  lies  you  know 

76 


ANTHRACITE 

not,  and  whence  it  comes  you  know  not,  but 
sweeping  over  heart  and  brain  like  a  fire-flood, 
— tells  you  too,  that  you  are  hers.     Irremedi- ; 
ably  bound  as  Hortensio  in  the  play : — 

"I  am  subject  to  another's  will,  and  can 
Nor  speak,  nor  do,  without  permission  from  her !" 

The  fire  is  warm  as  ever:  what  length  of 
heat  in  this  hard  burning  Anthracite!  It  has 
scarce  sunk  yet  to  the  second  bar  of  the  grate, 
though  the  clock  upon  the  church-tower  has 
tolled  eleven. 

— Aye,  mused  I,  gayly,  such  a  heart  does  not 
grow  faint,  it  does  not  spend  itself  in  idle  puffs 
of  blaze,  it  does  not  become  chilly  with  the 
passing  years;  but  it  gains  and  grows  in 
strength  and  heat,  until  the  fire  of  life  is  cov- 
ered over  with  the  ashes  of  death.  Strong  or 
hot  as  it  may  be  at  the  first,  it  loses  nothing. 
It  may  not,  indeed,  as  time  advances,  throw 
out,  like  the  Coal-fire,  when  new-lit,  jets  of 
blue  sparkling  flame;  it  may  not  continue  to 
bubble,  and  gush  like  a  fountain  at  its  source, 
but  it  will  become  a  strong  river  of  flowing 
charities. 

Clitumnus  breaks  from  under  the  Tuscan 
mountains,  almost  a  flood.  On  a  glorious 

77 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

spring  day  I  leaned  down  and  tasted  the  water, 
as  it  boiled  from  its  sources.  The  little  temple 
of  white  marble,  the  mountain  sides  gray  with 
olive  orchards,  the  white  streak  of  road,  the 
tall  poplars  of  the  river  margin  were  glistening 
in  the  bright  Italian  sunlight  around  me. 
Later,  I  saw  it  when  it  had  become  a  river, — 
still  clear  and  strong,  flowing  serenely  between 
its  prairie  banks,  on  which  the  white  cattle 
of  the  valley  browsed ;  and  still  farther  down, 
I  welcomed  it,  where  it  joins  the  Arno, — 
flowing  slowly  under  wooded  shores,  skirting 
the  fair  Florence,  and  the  bounteous  fields  of 
the  bright  Cascino,— gathering  strength  and 
volume,  till  between  Pisa  and  Leghorn,  in 
sight  of  the  wondrous  Leaning  Tower,  and 
the  ship-masts  of  the  Tuscan  port,  it  gave  its 
waters  to  the  sea. 

The  recollection  blended  sweetly  now  with 
my  musings  over  the  garret-grate,  and  offered 
a  flowing  image,  to  bear  along  upon  its  bosom 
the  affections  that  were  grouping  in  my 
Reverie. 

It  is  a  strange  force  of  the  mind  and  of  the 
fancy  that  can  set  the  objects  which  are  closest 
to  the  heart  far  down  the  lapse  of  time.  Even 
now,  as  the  fire  fades  slightly,  and  sinks  slowly 
toward  the  bar,  which  is  the  dial  of  my  hours, 

78 


ANTHRACITE 

I  seem  to  see  that  image  of  love  which  has 
played  about  the  fire-glow  of  my  grate,  years 
hence.  It  still  covers  the  same  warm,  trustful, 
religious  heart.  Trials  have  tried  it ;  afflictions 
have  weighed  upon  it;  danger  has  scared  it, 
and  death  is  coming  near  to  subdue  it;  but 
still  it  is  the  same. 

The  fingers  are  thinner;  the  face  has  lines 
of  care  and  sorrow,  crossing  each  other  in  a 
web-work  that  makes  the  golden  tissue  of  hu- 
manity. But  the  heart  is  fond  and  steady;  it 
is  the  same  true  heart,  the  same  self-sacrificing 
heart,  warming,  like  a  fire,  all  around  it.  Af- 
fliction has  tempered  joy,  and  joy  adorned  af- 
fliction. Life  and  all  its  troubles  have  become 
distilled  into  an  holy  incense,  rising  ever  from 
your  fireside— an  offering  to  your  household 
gods. 

Your  dreams  of  reputation,  your  swift  de- 
termination, your  impulsive  pride,  your  deep- 
uttered  vows  to  win  a  name,  have  all  sobered 
into  affection, — have  all  blended  into  that  glow 
of  feeling  which  finds  its  centre  and  hope  and 
joy  in  HOME.  From  my  soul  I  pity  him  whose 
soul  does  not  leap  at  the  mere  utterance  of  that 
name. 

A  home!— it  is  the  bright,  blessed,  adorable 
phantom  which  sits  highest  on  the  sunny  hori- 

79 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

zon  that  girdeth  Life!  When  shall  it  be 
reached?  When  shall  it  cease  to  be  a  glitter- 
ing day-dream,  and  become  fully  and  fairly 
yours  ? 

It  is  not  the  house,— though  that  may  have 
its  charms;  nor  the  fields  carefully  tilled,  and 
streaked  with  your  own  footpaths;  nor  the 
trees,— though  their  shadow  be  to  you  like 
that  of  a  great  rock  in  a  weary  land;  nor  yet 
is  it  the  fireside,  with  its  sweet  blaze-play ;  nor 
the  pictures  which  tell  of  loved  ones;  nor  the 
cherished  books;  but  more  far  than  all  these,— 
|  it  is  the  PRESENCE.  The  Lares  of  your  wor- 
ship are  there;  the  altar  of  your  confidence  is 
there;  the  end  of  your  worldly  faith  is  there; 
and  adorning  it  all,  and  sending  your  blood  in 
passionate  flow,  is  the  ecstasy  of  the  convic- 
tion that  there  at  least  you  are  beloved;  that 
there  you  are  understood;  that  there  your 
errors  will  meet  ever  with  gentlest  for- 
giveness; that  there  your  troubles  will  be 
smiled  away;  that  there  you  may  unburden 
your  soul,  fearless  of  harsh,  unsympathizing 
ears;  and  that  there  you  may  be  entirely  and 
j  oy  fully — yoursel  f . 

There  may  be  those  of  coarse  mould— and  I 
have  seen  such,  even  in  the  disguise  of  women 
—who  will  reckon  these  feelings  puling  senti- 

80 


ANTHRACITE 

ment.  God  pity  them!  as  they  have  need  of 
pity. 

That  image  by  the  fireside,  calm,  lov- 
ing, joyful,  is  there  still;  it  goes  not,  however 
my  spirit  tosses,  because  my  wish  and  every 
will  keep  it  there  unerring. 

The  fire  shows  through  the  screen,  yellow 
and  warm  as  a  harvest  sun.  It  is  in  its  best 
age,  and  that  age  is  ripeness. 

A  ripe  heart!  now  I  know  what  Words- 
worth meant  when  he  said, — 

"The  good  die  first, 

And  they  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust 
Burn  to  the  socket !" 

The  town-clock  is  striking  midnight.  The 
cold  of  the  night  wind  is  urging  its  way  in  at 
the  door  and  window  crevice ;  the  fire  has  sunk 
almost  to  the  third  bar  of  the  grate.  Still  my 
dream  tires  not,  but  wraps  fondly  round  that 
image,  now  in  the  far-off,  chilling  mists  of 
age,  growing  sainted.  Love  has  blended  into 
reverence;  passion  has  subsided  into  joyous 
content. 

And  what  if  age  comes?  said  I,  in  a 

new  flush  of  excitation,— what  else  proves  the 
wine?  What  else  gives  inner  strength,  and 

81 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

knowledge,  and  a  steady  pilot-hand,  to  steer 
your  boat  out  boldly  upon  that  shoreless  sea 
where  the  river  of  life  is  running?  Let  the 
white  ashes  gather ;  let  the  silver  hair  lie  where 
lay  the  auburn ;  let  the  eye  gleam  farther  back, 
and  dimmer;  it  is  but  retreating  toward  the 
pure  sky-depths,  an  usher  to  the  land  where 
you  will  follow  after. 

It  is  quite  cold,  and  I  take  away  the  screen 
altogether;  there  is  a  little  glow  yet,  but  pres- 
ently the  coal  slips  down  below  the  third  bar, 
with  a  rumbling  sound,  like  that  of  coarse 
gravel  falling  into  a  new  dug  grave. 

She  is  gone ! 

Well,  the  heart  has  burned  fairly,  evenly, 
generously  while  there  was  mortality  to  kindle 
it;  eternity  will  surely  kindle  it  better. 

Tears  indeed!  but  they  are  tears  of 

thanksgiving,  of  resignation,  and  of  hope. 

And  the  eyes — full  of  those  tears  which 
ministering  angels  bestow — climb  with  quick 
vision  upon  the  angelic  ladder,  and  open  upon 
the  futurity  where  she  has  entered,  and  upon 
the  country  which  she  enjoys. 

It  is  midnight,  and  the  sounds  of  life  are 
dead. 

You  are  in  the  death-chamber  of  life;  but 
you  are  also  in  the  death-chamber  of  care. 

82 


ANTHRACITE 

The  world  seems  sliding  backward;  and  hope 
and  you  are  sliding  forward.  The  clouds,  the 
agonies,  the  vain  expectancies,  the  braggart 
noise,  the  fears,  now  vanish  behind  the  cur- 
tain of  the  Past,  and  of  the  Night.  They  roll 
from  your  soul  like  a  load. 

In  the  dimness  of  what  seems  the  ending 
Present,  you  reach  out  tremulous  hands  tow- 
ard that  boundless  Future,  where  God's  eye 
lifts  over  the  horizon  like  sunrise  on  the  ocean. 
Do  you  recognize  it  as  an  earnest  of  something 
better?  Aye,  if  the  heart  has  been  pure  and 
steady,— burning  like  my  fire,— it  has  learned 
it  without  seeming  to  learn.  Faith  has  grown 
upon  it  as  the  blossom  grows  upon  the  bud,  or 
the  flower  upon  the  slow-lifting  stalk. 

Cares  cannot  come  into  the  dream-land 
where  I  live.  They  sink  with  the  dying  street 
noise,  and  vanish  with  the  embers  of  my  fire. 
Even  Ambition,  with  its  hot  and  shifting 
flame,  is  all  gone  out.  The  heart  in  the  dim- 
ness of  the  fading  fire-glow  is  all  itself.  The 
memory  of  what  good  things  have  come  over  it 
in  the  troubled  youth  life  bear  it  up,  and  hope 
and  faith  bear  it  on.  There  is  no  extravagant 
pulse-flow ;  there  is  no  mad  fever  of  the  brain ; 
but  only  the  soul,  forgetting,  for  once,  all  save 
its  destinies  and  its  capacities  for  good.  And 

83 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

it  mounts  higher  and  higher  on  these  wings  of 
thought ;  and  hope  burns  stronger  and  stronger 
out  of  the  ashes  of  decaying  life,  until  the 
sharp  edge  of  the  grave  seems  but  a  foot- 
scraper  at  the  wicket  of  Elysium. 

But  what  is  paper;  and  what  are  words? 
Vain  things!  The  soul  leaves  them  behind; 
the  pen  staggers  like  a  starveling  cripple,  and 
your  heart  is  leaving  it  a  whole  length  of  the 
life-course  behind.  The  soul's  mortal  long- 
ings, its  poor  baffled  hopes,  are  dim  now  in  the 
light  of  those  infinite  longings  which  spread 
over  it,  soft  and  holy  as  day-dawn.  Eternity 
has  stretched  a  corner  of  its  mantle  toward 
you,  and  the  breath  of  its  waving  fringe  is  like 
a  gale  of  Araby. 

A  little  rumbling,  and  a  last  plunge  of  the 
cinders  within  my  grate  startled  me,  and 
dragged  back  my  fancy  from  my  flower  chase, 
beyond  the  Phlegethon,  to  the  white  ashes  that 
were  now  thick  all  over  the  darkened  Coals. 

And  this,  mused  I,  is  only  a  Bachelor- 
dream  about  a  pure  and  loving  heart.  And  to- 
morrow comes  cankerous  life  again :  is  it 
wished  for?  or,  if  not  wished  for,  is  the  not 
:  wishing  wicked  ? 

Will  dreams  satisfy,  reach  high  as  they  can  ? 
Are  we  not,  after  all,  poor,  grovelling  mortals, 

84 


ANTHRACITE 

tied  to  earth  and  to  each  other  ?  Are  there  not 
sympathies,  and  hopes,  and  affections  which 
can  only  find  their  issue  and  blessing  in  fellow 
absorption?  Does  not  the  heart,  steady  and 
pure  as  it  may  be,  and  mounting  on  soul-flights 
often  as  it  dare,  want  a  human  sympathy  per- 
fectly indulged  to  make  it  healthful  ?  Is  there 
not  a  fount  of  love  for  this  world,  as  there  is 
a  fount  of  love  for  the  other?  Is  there  not  a 
certain  store  of  tenderness  cooped  in  this 
heart,  which  must  and  will  be  lavished  before 
the  end  comes?  Does  it  not  plead  with  the 
judgment,  and  make  issue  with  prudence, 
year  after  year?  Does  it  not  dog  your  steps 
all  through  your  social  pilgrimage,  setting  up 
its  claims  in  forms  fresh  and  odorous  as  new- 
blown  heath-bells,  saying — Come  away  from 
the  heartless,  the  factitious,  the  vain,  and 
measure  your  heart,  not  by  its  constraints,  but 
by  its  fullness  and  by  depth  ?  Let  it  run  and  be 
joyous ! 

Is  there  no  demon  that  comes  to  your  harsh 
night-dreams,  like  a  taunting  fiend,  whisper- 
ing,— Be  satisfied;  keep  your  heart  from  run- 
ning over;  bridle  those  affections;  there  is 
nothing  worth  loving? 

Does  not  some  sweet  being  hover  over  your 
spirit  of  Reverie  like  a  beckoning  angel, 

85 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

crowned  with  halo,  saying,— Hope  on,  hope 
ever ;  the  heart  and  I  are  kindred ;  our  mission 
will  be  fulfilled;  nature  shall  accomplish  its 
purpose;  the  soul  shall  have  its  paradise? 

1  threw  myself  upon  my  bed;  and  as 

my  thoughts  ran  over  the  definite,  sharp  busi- 
ness of  the  morrow,  my  Reverie,  and  its  glow- 
ing images  that  made  my  heart  bound,  swept 
away  like  those  fleecy  rain-clouds  of  August, 
on  which  the  sun  paints  rain-bows,  driven 
southward  by  a  cool,  rising  wind  from  the 
north. 

1  wonder,  thought  I,  as  I  dropped 

asleep,  if  a  married  man  with  his  sentiment 
made  actual,  is,  after  all,  as  happy  as  we  poor 
fellows  in  our  dreams? 


86 


THIRD  REVERIE 

A  CIGAR  THREE  TIMES  LIGHTED 


OVER  HIS  CIGAR 


IDO  not  believe  that  there  was  ever  an 
Aunt  Tabithy  who  could  abide  cigars. 
My  Aunt  Tabithy  hated  them  with  a 
peculiar  hatred.  She  was  not  only  insensible 
to  the  rich  flavor  of  a  fresh,  rolling  volume  of 
smoke,  but  she  could  not  so  much  as  tolerate 
the  sight  of  the  rich  russet  color  of  an  Havana- 
labelled  box.  It  put  her  out  of  all  conceit  with 
Guava  jelly,  to  find  it  advertised  in  the  same 
tongue,  and  with  the  same  Cuban  coarseness  of 
design. 

She  could  see  no  good  in  a  cigar. 

"But  by  your  leave,  my  aunt,"  said  I  to  her, 
the  other  morning,  "there  is  very  much  that  is 
good  in  a  cigar." 

My  aunt,  who  was  sweeping,  tossed  her 
head,  and  with  it  her  curls— done  up  in  paper. 

"It  is  a  very  excellent  matter,"  continued  I, 
puffing. 

"It  is  dirty,"  said  my  aunt. 

"It  is  clean  and  sweet,"  said  I ;  "and  a  most 
pleasant  soother  of  disturbed  feelings;  and  a 

89 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

capital  companion;  and  a  comforter—"  and  I 
stopped  to  puff. 

"You  know  it  is  a  filthy  abomination,"  said 
my  aunt;  "and  you  ought  to  be—"  and  she 
stopped  to  put  up  one  of  her  curls,  which,  with 
the  energy  of  her  gesticulation,  had  fallen  out 
of  place. 

"It  suggests  quiet  thoughts,"  continued  I; 
"and  makes  a  man  meditative ;  and  gives  a  cur- 
rent to  his  habits  of  contemplation,— as  I  can 
show  you,"  said  I,  warming  with  the  theme. 

My  aunt,  still  fingering  her  papers,— with 
the  pin  in  her  mouth,— gave  a  most  incredu- 
lous shrug. 

"Aunt  Tabithy,"  said  I,  and  gave  two  or 
three  violent,  consecutive  puffs, — "Aunt  Tab- 
ithy, I  can  make  up  such  a  series  of  reflections 
out  of  my  cigar,  as  would  do  your  heart  good 
to  listen  to !" 

"About  what,  pray?"  said  my  aunt,  con- 
temptuously. 

"About  Love,"  said  I,  "which  is  easy 
enough  lighted,  but  wants  constancy  to  keep  it 
in  a  glow.  Or  about  Matrimony,  which  has 
a  great  deal  of  fire  in  the  beginning,  but  it  is  a 
fire  that  consumes  all  that  feeds  the  blaze.  Or 
about  Life,"  continued  I,  earnestly,  "which  at 
the  first  is  fresh  and  odorous,  but  ends  shortly 

90 


OVER  HIS  CIGAR 

in  a  withered  cinder,  that  is  fit  only  for  the 
ground." 

My  aunt,  who  was  forty  and  unmarried,  \ 
finished  her  curl  with  a  flip  of  the  fingers,  re- 
sumed her  hold  of  the  broom,  and  leaned  her 
chin  upon  one  end  of  it,  with  an  expression  of 
some  wonder,  some  curiosity,  and  a  great  deal 
of  expectation. 

I  could  have  wished  my  aunt  had  been  a 
little  less  curious,  or  that  I  had  been  a  little 
less  communicative ;  for  though  it  was  all  hon- 
estly said  on  my  part,  yet  my  contemplations  ' 
bore  that  vague,  shadowy,  and  delicious  sweet- 
ness, which  it  seemed  impossible  to  put  into 
words,— least  of  all,  at  the  bidding  of  an  old  j 
lady  leaning  on  a  broom-handle. 

"Give  me  time,  Aunt  Tabithy,"  said  I,  "a 
good  dinner,  and  after  it  a  good  cigar,  and  I 
will  serve  you  such  a  sunshiny  sheet  of  Rev- 
erie, all  twisted  out  of  the  smoke,  as  will  make 
your  kind  old  heart  ache !" 

Aunt  Tabithy,  in  utter  contempt,  either  of 
my  mention  of  the  dinner,  or  of  the  smoke,  or 
of  the  old  heart,  commenced  sweeping  fur- 
iously. 

"If  I  do  not,"  continued  I,  anxious  to  ap- 
pease her,— "if  I  do  not,  Aunt  Tabithy,  it 
shall  be  my  last  cigar;  (Aunt  Tabithy  stopped 

91 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

sweeping;)  and  all  my  tobacco  money  (Aunt 
Tabithy  drew  near  me)  shall  go  to  buy  ribbons 
for  my  most  respectable  and  worthy  Aunt 
Tabithy;  and  a  kinder  person  could  not  have 
them;  or  one,"  continued  I,  with  a  generous 
puff,  "whom  they  would  more  adorn." 

My  *  Aunt  Tabithy  gave  me  a  half-playful, 
half-thankful  nudge. 

It  was  in  this  way  that  our  bargain  was 
struck;  my  part  of  it  is  already  stated.  On 
her  part,  Aunt  Tabithy  was  to  allow  me,  in 
case  of  my  success,  an  evening  cigar  unmo- 
lested, upon  the  front  porch,  underneath  her 
1  favorite  rose-tree.  It  was  concluded,  I  say, 
as  I  sat;  the  smoke  of  my  cigar  rising  grace- 
fully around  my  Aunt  Tabithy's  curls;  our 
right  hands  joined;  my  left  was  holding  my 
cigar,  while  in  hers  was  tightly  grasped — her 
L  broomstick. 

And  this  Reverie,  to  make  the  matter  short, 
is  what  came  of  the  contract. 


92 


I 

LIGHTED  WITH  A  COAL 

I  TAKE  up  a  coal  with  the  tongs,  and  setting 
the  end  of  my  cigar  against  it,  puff— and  puff 
again,  but  there  is  no  smoke.  There  is  very 
little  hope  of  lighting  from  a  dead  coal;  no 
more  hope,  thought  I,  than  of  kindling  one's 
heart  into  flame  by  contact  with  a  dead  heart. 

To  kindle,  there  must  be  warmth  and  life; 
and  I  sat  for  a  moment,  thinking— even  before 
I  lit  my  cigar — on  the  vanity  and  folly  of  those 
poor,  purblind  fellows,  who  go  on  puffing  for 
half  a  lifetime  against  dead  coals.  It  is  to  be 
hoped  that  Heaven,  in  its  mercy,  has  made 
their  senses  so  obtuse,  that  they  know  not 
when  their  souls  are  in  a  flame,  or  when  they 
are  dead.  I  can  imagine  none  but  the  most 
moderate  satisfaction,  in  continuing  to  love 
what  has  got  no  ember  of  love  within  it.  The 
Italians  have  a  very  sensible  sort  of  proverb, 
—amare,  e  non  essere  amato,  e  tempo  perduto, 
—to  love,  and  not  be  loved,  is  time  lost. 

I  take  a  kind  of  rude  pleasure  in  flinging 
down  a  coal  that  has  no  life  in  it.  And  it 

93 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

seemed  to  me— and  may  Heaven  pardon  the 
ill-nature  that  belongs  to  the  thought— that 
there  would  be  much  of  the  same  kind  of  sat- 
isfaction in  dashing  from  you  a  luke-warm 
creature,  covered  over  with  the  yellow  ashes 
of  old  combustion,  that  with  ever  so  much  at- 
tention, and  the  nearest  approach  of  the  lips, 

'  never  shows  signs  of  fire.  May  Heaven  for- 
give me  again,  but  I  should  long  to  break 
away,  though  the  marriage  bonds  held  me,  and 

j^see  what  liveliness  was  to  be  found  elsewhere. 

I  have  seen  before  now  a  creeping  vine  try 
to  grow  up  against  a  marble  wall ;  it  shoots  out 
its  tendrils  in  all  directions,  seeking  for  some 
crevice  by  which  to  fasten  and  to  climb, — look- 
ing now  above  and  now  below,  twining  upon 
itself,  reaching  farther  up,— but  after  all  find- 
ing no  good  foothold,  and  falling  away  as  if 
in  despair.  But  nature  is  not  unkind;  twin- 
ing things  were  made  to  twine.  The  longing 
tendrils  take  new  strength  in  the  sunshine  and 
in  the  showers,  and  shoot  out  toward  some 
hospitable  trunk.  They  fasten  easily  to  the 
kindly  roughness  of  the  bark,  and  stretch  up, 
dragging  after  them  the  vine;  which  by-and- 
by,  from  the  topmost  bough,  will  nod  its  blos- 
soms over  at  the  marble  wall  that  refused  it 
succor,  as  if  it  said,— Stand  there  in  your 

94 


LIGHTED  WITH  A  COAL 

pride,  cold,  white  wall !  we,  the  tree  and  I,  are 
kindred ;  it  the  helper,  and  I  the  helped ;  and  ? 
bound  fast  together,  we  riot  in  the  sunshine 
and  in  gladness. 

The  thought  of  this  image  made  me  search 
for  a  new  coal  that  should  have  some  bright- 
ness in  it.  There  may  be  a  white  ash  over  it, 
indeed,— as  you  will  find  tender  feelings  cov- 
ered with  the  mask  of  courtesy,  or  with  the 
veil  of  fear, — but  with  a  breath  it  all  flies  off, 
and  exposes  the  heat  and  the  glow  that  you  are 
seeking. 

At  the  first  touch,  the  delicate  edges  of  the 
cigar  crimple,  a  thin  line  of  smoke  rises, — 
doubtfully  for  a  while,  and  with  a  coy  delay; 
but  after  a  hearty  respiration  or  two,  it  grows 
strong,  and  my  cigar  is  fairly  lighted. 

That  first  taste  of  the  new  smoke  and  of 
the  fragrant  leaf  is  very  grateful;  it  has  a 
bloom  about  it  that  you  wish  might  last.  It 
is  like  your  first  love,— fresh,  genial,  and  rap- 
turous. Like  that,  it  fills  up  all  the  craving  of 
your  soul ;  and  the  light,  blue  wreaths  of 
smoke,  like  the  roseate  clouds  that  hang 
around  the  morning  of  your  heart-life,  cut  you 
off  from  the  chill  atmosphere  of  mere  worldly 
companionship,  and  make  a  gorgeous  firma- 
ment for  your  fancy  to  riot  in. 

95 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

I  do  not  speak  now  of  those  later  and  man- 
lier passions,  into  which  judgment  must  be 
thrusting  its  cold  tones,  and  when  all  the  sweet 
tumult  of  your  heart  has  mellowed  into  the 
sober  ripeness  of  affection.  But  I  mean  that 
boyish  burning  which  belongs  to  every  poor 
mortal's  lifetime,  and  which  bewilders  him 
with  the  thought  that  he  has  reached  the  high- 
est point  of  human  joy,  before  he  has  tasted 
any  of  that  bitterness  from  which  alone  our 
highest  human  joys  have  sprung.  I  mean  the 
time  when  you  cut  initials  with  your  jack- 
knife  on  the  smooth  bark  of  beech-trees;  and 
went  moping  under  the  long  shadows  at  sun- 
set; and  thought  Louise  the  prettiest  name  in 
the  wide  world ;  and  picked  flowers  to  leave  at 
her  door;  and  stole  out  at  night  to  watch  the 
light  in  her  window;  and  read  such  novels  as 
those  about  Helen  Mar,  or  Charlotte,  to  give 
some  adequate  expression  to  your  agonized 
feelings. 

At  such  a  stage,  you  are  quite  certain  that 
you  are  deeply  and  madly  in  love ;  you  persist, 
in  the  face  of  heaven  and  earth.  You  would 
like  to  meet  the  individual  who  dared  to  doubt 
it. 

You  think  she  has  the  tidiest  and  jauntiest 
little  figure  that  ever  was  seen.  You  think 

96 


LIGHTED  WITH  A  COAL 

back  upon  some  time  when,  in  your  games  of 
forfeit,  you  gained  a  kiss  from  those  lips ;  and 
it  seems  as  if  the  kiss  was  hanging  on-you  yet, 
and  warming  you  all  over.  And  then  again, 
it  seems  so  strange  that  your  lips  did  really 
touch  hers !  You  half  question  if  it  could  have 
been  actually  so, — and  how  you  could  have 
dared ;  and  you  wonder  if  you  would  have 
courage  to  do  the  same  thing  again  ?  and  upon 
second  thought  are  quite  sure  you  would,  and 
snap  your  ringers  at  the  thought  of  it. 

What  sweet  little  hats  she  does  wear ;  and  in 
the  school-room,  when  the  hat  is  hung  up, 
what  curls,  golden  curls,  worth  a  hundred 
Golcondas!  How  bravely  you  study  the  top 
lines  of  the  spelling-book,  that  your  eyes  may 
run  over  the  edge  of  the  cover  without  the 
schoolmaster's  notice,  and  feast  upon  her ! 

You  half  wish  that  somebody  would  run 
away  with  her,  as  they  did  with  Amanda,  in 
the  "Children  of  the  Abbey";  and  then  you 
might  ride  up  on  a  splendid  black  horse,  and 
draw  a  pistol  or  blunderbuss,  and  shoot  the 
villains,  and  carry  her  back,  all  in  tears,  faint- 
ing and  languishing  upon  your  shoulder,  and 
have  her  father  (who  is  Judge  of  the  County 
Court)  take  your  hand  in  both  of  his, 
and  make  some  eloquent  remarks.  A  great 

97 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

many  such  recaptures  you  run  over  in  your 
mind,  and  think  how  delightful  it  would  be  to 
peril  your  life,  either  by  flood  or  fire,— to  cut 
off  your  arm,  or  your  head,  or  any  such  trifle, 
for  your  dear  Louise. 

You  can  hardly  think  of  anything  more  joy- 
ous in  life  than  to  live  with  her  in  some  old 
castle,  very  far  away  from  steamboats  and 
post-offices,  and  pick  wild  geraniums  for  her 
hair,  and  read  poetry  with  her  under  the  shade 
of  very  dark  ivy  vines.  And  you  would  have 
such  a  charming  boudoir  in  some  corner  of  the 
old  ruin,  with  a  harp  in  it,  and  books  bound  in 
gilt,  with  cupids  on  the  cover,  and  such  a  fairy 
couch,  with  the  curtains  hung— as  you  have 
seen  them  hung  in  some  illustrated  Arabian 
stories— upon  a  pair  of  carved  doves. 

And  when  they  laugh  at  you  about  it,  you 
turn  it  off  perhaps,  with  saying,  "It  is  n't  so;" 
but  afterward,  in  your  chamber,  or  under  the 
tree  where  you  have  cut  her  name,  you  take 
Heaven  to  witness  that  it  is  so,  and  think, 
What  a  cold  world  it  is,  to  be  so  careless  about 
such  holy  emotions !  You  perfectly  hate  a  cer- 
tain stout  boy  in  a  green  jacket,  who  is  forever 
twitting  you,  and  calling  her  names ;  but  when 
some  old  maiden  aunt  teases  you  in  her  kind, 
gentle  way,  you  bear  it  very  proudly,  and  with 

98 


LIGHTED  WITH  A  COAL 

a  feeling  as  if  you  could  bear  a  great  deal  more 
for  her  sake.  And  when  the  minister  reads  off 
marriage  announcements  in  the  church,  you 
think  how  it  will  sound,  one  of  these  days,  to 
have  your  name  and  hers  read  from  the  pulpit ; 
and  how  the  people  will  all  look  at  you,  and 
how  prettily  she  will  blush ;  and  how  poor  little 
Dick— who  you  know  loves  her,  but  is  afraid 
to  say  so— will  squirm  upon  his  bench. 

Heigho!  mused  I, — as  the  blue  smoke 

rolled  up  around  my  head,— these  first  kind- 
lings of  the  love  that  is  in  one  are  very  pleasant ! 
but  will  they  last  ? 

You  love  to  listen  to  the  rustle  of  her  dress, 
as  she  stirs  about  the  room.  It  is  better  music 
than  grown-up  ladies  will  make  upon  all  their 
harpsichords,  in  the  years  that  are  to  come. 
But  this,  thank  Heaven,  you  do  not  know. 

You  think  you  can  trace  her  footmark,  on 
your  way  to  the  school ;  and  what  a  dear  little 
footmark  it  is!  And  from  that  single  point, : 
if  she  be  out  of  your  sight  for  days,  you  con- 
jure up  the  whole  image :  the  elastic,  lithe  little 
figure, — the  springy  step, — the  dotted  muslin, 
so  light  and  flowing, — the  silk  kerchief,  with 
its  most  tempting  fringe  playing  upon  the  clear 
white  of  her  throat ;  how  you  envy  that  fringe ! 
And  her  chin  is  as  round  as  a  peach;  and  the 

99 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

lips, — such  lips!  and  you  sigh,  and  hang  your 
head,  and  wonder  when  you  shall  see  her 
again. 

You  would  like  to  write  her  a  letter;  but 
then,  people  would  talk  so  coldly  about  it ;  and 
besides,  you  are  not  quite  sure  you  could  write 
such  billets  as  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw  used  to 
write,  and  anything  less  warm  or  elegant 
would  not  do  at  all.  You  talk  about  this  one 
or  that  one,  whom  they  call  pretty,  in  the  cool- 
est way  in  the  world:  you  see  very  little  of 
their  prettiness;  they  are  good  girls,  to  be 
sure;  and  you  hope  they  will  get  good  hus- 
bands some  day  or  other ;  but  it  is  not  a  matter 
that  concerns  you  very  much.  They  do  not 
live  in  your  world  of  romance ;  they  are  not  the 
angels  of  that  sky  which  your  heart  makes 
rosy,  and  to  which  I  have  likened  the  blue 
waves  of  this  rolling  smoke. 

You  can  even  joke  as  you  talk  of  others; 
you  can  smile — as  you  think — very  graciously; 
you  can  say  laughingly  that  you  are  deeply  in 
love  with  them,  and  think  it  a  most  capital 
joke;  you  can  touch  their  hands,  or  steal  a 
kiss  from  them  in  your  games,  most  impertur- 
bably;— they  are  very  dead  coals. 

But  the  live  one  is  very  lively.  When  you 
take  the  name  on  your  lip,  it  seems,  somehow, 

100 


LIGHTED  WITH  A  COAL 

to  be  made  of  different  materials  from  the  rest ; 
you  cannot  half  so  easily  separate  it  into  let- 
ters; write  it,  indeed,  you  can,  for  you  have 
had  practice,  very  much  private  practice  on 
odd  scraps  of  paper,  and  on  the  fly-leaves 
of  Geographies,  and  of  your  Natural  Philoso- 
phy. You  know  perfectly  well  how  it  looks; 
it  seems  to  be  written  indeed  somewhere  be- 
hind your  eyes,  and  in  such  happy  position, 
with  respect  to  the  optic  nerve,  that  you  see 
it  all  the  time,  though  you  are  looking  in  an  op- 
posite direction, — and  so  distinctly,  that  you 
have  great  fears  lest  people  looking  into  your 
eyes  should  see  it  too. 

For  all  this,  it  is  a  far  more  delicate  name  to 
handle  than  most  that  you  know  of.  Though 
it  is  very  cool  and  pleasant  on  the  brain,  it  is 
very  hot  and  difficult  to  manage  on  the  lip.  It 
is  not,  as  your  schoolmaster  would  say,  a 
name,  so  much  as  it  is  an  idea;  not  a  noun, 
but  a  verb,— an  active,  and  transitive  verb; 
and  yet  a  most  irregular  verb,  wanting  the  pas- 
sive voice. 

It  is  something  against  your  schoolmaster's 
doctrine,  to  find  warmth  in  the  moonlight ;  but 
with  that  soft  hand— it  is  very  soft— lying 
within  your  arm,  there  is  a  great  deal  of 
warmth,  whatever  the  philosophers  may  say, 

101 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

even  in  pale  moonlight.  The  beams,  too,  breed 
sympathies,  very  close-running  sympathies, 
not  talked  about  in  the  chapters  on  optics,  and 
altogether  too  fine  for  language.  And  under 
their  influence,  you  retain  the  little  hand  that 
you  had  not  dared  retain  so  long  before;  and 
her  struggle  to  recover  it— if  indeed  it  be  a 
struggle— is  infinitely  less  than  it  was;  nay  it 
is  a  kind  of  struggle,  not  so  much  against  you, 
'"as  between  gladness  and  modesty.  It  makes 
you  as  bold  as  a  lion ;  and  the  feeble  hand,  like 
a  poor  lamb  in  the  lion's  clutch,  is  powerless, 
and  very  meek;  and  failing  of  escape,  it  will 
sue  for  gentle  treatment,  and  will  meet  your 
warm  promise  with  a  kind  of  grateful  pres- 
sure, that  is  but  half  acknowledged  by  the 
hand  that  makes  it. 

U'  \ 

My  cigar  is  burning  with  wondrous  free- 
ness;  and  from  the  smoke  flash  forth  images 
bright  and  quick  as  lightning,  with  no  thunder 
but  the  thunder  of  the  pulse.  But  will  it  all  last  ? 
Damp  will  deaden  the  fire  of  a  cigar ;  and  there 
are  hellish  damps —  alas!  too  many — that  will 
deaden  the  early  blazing  of  the  heart. 

She  is  pretty, — growing  prettier  to  your  eye 
the  more  you  look  upon  her,  and  prettier  to 
your  ear  the  more  you  listen  to  her.  But  you 
wonder  who  the  tall  boy  was,  whom  you  saw 
walking  with  her  two  days  ago.  He  was  not 

1 02 


LIGHTED  WITH  A  COAL 

a  bad-looking  boy;  on  the  contrary,  you  think 
(with  a  grit  of  your  teeth)  that  he  was  infer- 
nally handsome.  You  look  at  him  very  shyly 
and  very  closely  when  you  pass  him,  and  turn 
to  see  how  he  walks,  and  to  measure  his  shoul- 
ders, and  are  quite  disgusted  with  the  very 
modest  and  gentlemanly  way  with  which  he 
carries  himself.  You  think  you  would  like  to 
have  a  fisticuff  with  him,  if  you  were  only  sure 
of  having  the  best  of  it.  You  sound  the  neigh- 
borhood coyly,  to  find  out  who  the  strange  boy 
is,  and  are  half  ashamed  of  yourself  for  doing 
it. 

You  gather  a  magnificent  bouquet  to  send 
her,  and  tie  it  with  a  white  ribbon  and  love- 
knot;  and  get  a  little  rose-bud  in  acknowledg- 
ment. That  day  you  pass  the  tall  boy  with  a 
very  patronizing  look,  and  wonder  if  he  would 
not  like  to  have  a  sail  in  your  boat  ? 

But  by-and-by  you  find  the  tall  boy  walking 
with  her  again ;  and  she  looks  sideways  at  him, 
and  with  a  kind  of  grown-up  air  that  makes 
you  feel  very  boylike,  and  humble,  and  furious. 
And  you  look  daggers  at  him  when  you  pass, 
and  touch  your  cap  to  her  with  quite  uncom- 
mon dignity, — and  wonder  if  she  is  not  sorry, 
and  does  not  feel  very  badly,  to  have  got  such 
a  look  from  you  ? 

On  some  other  day,  however,  you  meet  her 

103 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

alone;  and  the  sight  of  her  makes  your  face 
wear  a  genial,  sunny  air;  and  you  talk  a  little 
sadly  about  your  fears  and  your  jealousies. 
She  seems  a  little  sad  and  a  little  glad,  to- 
gether; and  is  sorry  she  has  made  you  feel 
badly, — and  you  are  sorry  too.  And  with  this 
pleasant  twin  sorrow  you  are  knit  together 
again— closer  than  ever.  That  one  little  tear 
of  hers  has  been  worth  more  to  you  than  a 
thousand  smiles.  Now  you  love  her  madly; 
you  could  swear  it,— swear  it  to  her,  or  swear 
it  to  the  universe.  You  even  say  as  much  to 
some  kind  old  friend  at  nightfall;  but  your 
mention  of  her  is  tremulous  and  joyful,  with  a 
kind  of  bound  in  your  speech,  as  if  the  heart 
worked  too  quick  for  the  tongue,  and  as  if  the 
lips  were  ashamed  to  be  passing  over  such 
secrets  of  the  soul  to  the  mere  sense  of  hearing. 
At  this  stage  you  cannot  trust  yourself  to  speak 
her  praises;  or  if  you  venture,  the  expletives 
fly  away  with  your  thought  before  you  can 
chain  it  into  language;  and  your  speech,  at 
your  best  endeavor,  is  but  a  succession  of 
broken  superlatives  that  you  are  ashamed  of. 
You  strain  for  language  that  will  scald  the 
thought  of  her ;  but  hot  as  you  can  make  it,  it 
falls  back  upon  your  heated  fancy  like  a  cold 
shower. 

Heat  so  intense  as  this  consumes  very  fast; 

104 


LIGHTED  WITH  A  COAL 

and  the  matter  it  feeds  fastest  on,  is— judg- 
ment; and  with  judgment  gone,  there  is  room 
for  jealousy  to  creep  in.  You  grow  -petulant 
at  another  sight  of  that  tall  boy;  and  the  one 
tear,  which  cured  your  first  petulance,  will  not 
cure  it  now.  You  let  a  little  of  your  fever 
break  out  in  speech— a  speech  which  you  go 
home  to  mourn  over.  But  she  knows  nothing 
of  the  mourning,  while  she  knows  very  much 
of  the  anger.  And  when  you  go  again  with 
your  petulance,  you  will  find  your  rosy-lipped 
girl  taking  her  first  studies  in  dignity. 

You  will  stay  away,  you  say :  poor  fool,  you 
are  feeding  on  what  your  disease  loves  best. 
You  wonder  if  she  is  not  sighing  for  your  re- 
turn, and  if  your  name  is  not  running  in  her 
thought,  and  if  tears  of  regret  are  not  moisten- 
ing those  sweet  eyes. 

And  wondering  thus,  you  stroll  moodily 

and  hopefully  toward  her  father's  home;  you 
pass  the  door  once,  twice;  you  loiter  under  the 
shade  of  an  old  tree  where  you  have  some- 
times bid  her  adieu;  your  old  fondness  is 
struggling  with  your  pride  and  has  almost  made 
the  mastery ;  but  in  the  very  moment  of  victory 
you  see  yonder  your  hated  rival,  and  beside 
him,  looking  very  gleeful  and  happy, — your 
perfidious  Louise. 

How  quick  you  throw  off  the  marks  of  your 

105 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

struggle,  and  put  on  the  boldest  air  of  boy- 
hood; and  what  a  dexterous  handling  to  your 
knife,  and  a  wonderful  keenness  to  the  edge, 
as  you  cut  away  from  the  bark  of  the  beech- 
tree  all  trace  of  her  name!  Still,  there  is  a 
little  silent  relenting,  and  a  few  sighs  at  night, 
and  a  little  tremor  of  the  hand,  as  you  tear  out, 
the  next  day,  every  fly-leaf  that  bears  her 
name.  But  at  sight  of  your  rival — looking  so 
jaunty,  and  in  such  capital  spirits — you  put 
on  the  proud  man  again.  You  may  meet  her, 
but  you  say  nothing  of  your  struggles ;  oh,  no ! 
not  one  word  of  that ;  but  you  talk  with  amaz- 
ing rapidity  about  your  games,  or  what  not; 
and  you  never— never  give  her  another  peep 
into  your  boyish  heart. 

For  a  week,  you  do  not  see  her,— nor  for  a 
month, — nor  two  months, — nor  three. 

Puff,  puff,  once  more.  There  is  only 

a  little  nauseous  smoke;  and  now — my  cigar  is 
gone  out  altogether.  I  must  light  again. 


106 


II 

WITH  A  WISP  OF  PAPER 

THERE  are  those  who  throw  away  a  cigar 
when  once  gone  out;  they  must  needs  have 
plenty  more.  But  nobody  that  I  ever  heard 
of  keeps  a  cedar  box  of  hearts  labelled  at 
Havana.  Alas !  there  is  but  one  to  light ! 

But  can  a  heart  once  lit  be  lighted  again?  Au-  I 
thority  on  this  point  is  worth  something;  yet 
it  should  be  impartial  authority.  I  would  be 
loth  to  take  in  evidence  of  the  fact— however 
it  should  tally  with  my  hope— the  affidavit  of 
some  rakish  old  widower,  who  had  cast  his 
weeds  before  the  grass  had  started  on  the 
mound  of  his  affliction;  and  I  should  be  as 
slow  to  take,  in  way  of  rebutting  testimony, 
the  oath  of  any  sweet  young  girl  just  becoming 
conscious  of  her  heart's  existence — by  its  loss. 

Very  much,  it  seems  to  me,  depends  upon 
the  quality  of  the  fire;  and  I  can  easily  con- 
ceive of  one  so  pure,  so  constant,  so  exhaust- 
ing, that  if  it  were  once  gone  out,  whether  in 
the  chills  of  death,  or  under  the  blasts  of  piti- 
less fortune,  there  would  be  no  rekindling, 

107 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

simply  because  there  would  be  nothing  left  to 
kindle.  And  I  can  imagine,  too,  a  fire  so  ear- 
nest and  so  true,  that,  whatever  malice  might 
urge,  or  a  devilish  ingenuity  devise,  there 
could  no  other  be  found,  high  or  low,  far  or 
near,  which  should  not  so  contrast  with  the 
first  as  to  make  it  seem  cold  as  ice. 

I  remember,  in  an  old  play  of  Davenport's, 
the  hero  is  led  to  doubt  his  mistress;  he  is 
worked  upon  by  slanders  to  quit  her  altogether, 
though  he  has  loved,  and  does  still  love  pas- 
sionately. She  bids  him  adieu,  with  large 
tears  dropping  from  her  eyes;  (and  I  lay  down 
my  cigar,  to  recite  it  aloud,  fancying  all  the 
while,  with  a  varlet  impudence,  that  some  Ab- 
stemia  is  repeating  it  to  me:) 

"Farewell,  Lorenzo, 

Whom  my  soul  doth  love ;  if  you  ever  marry, 
May  you  meet  a  good  wife ;  so  good,  that  you 
May  not  suspect  her,  nor  may  she  be  worthy 
Of  your  suspicion :  and  if  you  hear  hereafter 
That  I  am  dead,  inquire  but  my  last  words, 
And  you  shall  know  that  to  the  last  I  loved  you. 
And  when  you  walk  forth  with  your  second  choice 
Into  the  pleasant  fields,  and  by  chance  talk  of  me, 
Imagine  that  you  see  me  lean  and  pale, 
Strewing  your  paths  with  flowers  I1 

lThe  City  Night-Cap,  Act  ii.  Sec.  2. 

108 


WITH  A  WISP  OF  PAPER 

Poor  Abstemia!  Lorenzo  never  could 

find  such  another:  there  never  could  be  such 
another,  for  such  Lorenzo. 

To  blaze  anew,  it  is  essential  that  the  old 
fire  be  utterly  gone;  and  can  any  truly-lighted 
soul  ever  grow  cold,  except  the  grave  cover 
it  ?  The  poets  all  say  no :  Othello,  had  he  lived 
a  thousand  years,  would  not  have  loved  again ; 
nor  Desdemona,— nor  Andromache,— nor 
Medea,— nor  Ulysses,— nor  Hamlet.  But  in 
the  cool  wreaths  of  the  pleasant  smoke,  let  us 
see  what  truth  is  in  the  poets. 

What  is  love,  mused  I,  at  the  first,  but 

a  mere  fancy?  There  is  a  prettiness  that  your 
soul  cleaves  to,  as  your  eye  to  a  pleasant 
flower,  or  your  ear  to  a  soft  melody.  Pres- 
ently, admiration  comes  in,  as  a  sort  of  bal- 
ance-wheel for  the  eccentric  revolutions  of 
your  fancy,  and  your  admiration  is  touched 
off  with  such  neat  quality  as  respect.  Too*7 
much  of  this,  indeed,  they  say,  deadens  the 
fancy,  and  so  retards  the  action  of  the  heart- 
machinery.  But  with  a  proper  modicum  to 
serve  as  a  stock,  devotion  is  grafted  in;  and  t 
then,  by  an  agreeable  and  confused  mingling, 
all  these  qualities  and  affections  of  the  soul  be- 
come transfused  into  that  vital  feeling  called 
Love, 

109 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

Your  heart  seems  to  have  gone  over  to  an- 
other and  better  counterpart  of  your  humanity ; 
what  is  left  of  you  seems  the  mere  husk  of 
some  kernel  that  has  been  stolen.  It  is  not  an 
emotion  of  yours,  which  is  making  very  easy 
voyages  toward  another  soul, — that  may  be 
shortened  or  lengthened  at  will;  but  it  is  a 
passion  that  is  only  yours  because  it  is  there; 
the  more  it  lodges  there,  the  more  keenly  you 
feel  it  to  be  yours. 

The  qualities  that  feed  this  passion  may,  in- 
deed, belong  to  you,  but  they  never  gave  birth 
to  such  an  one  before,  simply  because  there  was 
no  place  in  which  it  could  grow.  Nature  is 
very  provident  in  these  matters.  The  chrys- 
alis does  not  burst  until  there  is  a  wing  to 
help  the  gauze-fly  upward.  The  shell  does  not 
break  until  the  bird  can  breathe;  nor  does  the 
swallow  quit  its  nest  until  its  wings  are  tipped 
with  the  airy  oars. 

This  passion  of  love  is  strong,  just  in  pro- 
portion as  the  atmosphere  it  finds  is  tender  of 
its  life.  Let  that  atmosphere  change  into  too 
great  coldness,  and  the  passion  becomes  a 
wreck, — not  yours,  because  it  is  not  worth 
your  having, — nor  vital,  because  it  has  lost  the 
soil  where  it  grew.  But  is  it  not  laying  the 
reproach  in  a  high  quarter,  to  say  that  those 

no 


WITH  A  WISP  OF  PAPER 

qualities  of  the  heart,  which  begot  this  passion, 
are  exhausted,  and  will  not  thenceforth  germi- 
nate through  all  of  your  lifetime  ? 

Take  away  the  worm-eaten  frame  from~1 

your  arbor  plant,  and  the  wrenched  arms  of 
the  despoiled  climber  will  not,  at  the  first, 
touch  any  new  trellis;  they  cannot  in  a  day  , 
change  the  habit  of  a  year.  But  let  the  new 
support  stand  firmly,  and  the  needy  tendrils 
will  presently  lay  hold  upon  the  stranger ;  and 
your  plant  will  regain  its  pride  and  pomp, — 
cherishing,  perhaps,  in  its  bent  figure,  a  me- 
mento of  the  Old,  but  in  its  more  earnest  and 
abounding  life  mindful  only  of  its  sweet  de- 
pendence on  the  New. 

Let  the  poets  say  what  they  will,  these  af- 
fections of  ours  are  not  blind,  stupid  creatures, 
to  starve  under  polar  snows,  when  the  very 
breezes  of  Heaven  are  the  appointed  messen- 
gers to  guide  them  toward  warmth  and  sun- 
shine. 

And  with  a  little  suddenness  of  manner 

I  tear  off  a  wisp  of  paper,  and  holding  it  in  the 
blaze  of  my  lamp,  relight  my  cigar.  It  does 
not  burn  so  easily,  perhaps,  as  at  first ;  it  wants 
warming  before  it  will  catch;  but  presently  it 
is  in  a  broad,  full  glow,  that  throws  light  into 
the  corners  of  my  room. 

in 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

-Just  so,  thought  I,  the  love  of  youth, 


which  succeeds  the  crackling  blaze  of  boyhood, 
makes  a  broader  flame,  though  it  may  not  be 
so  easily  kindled.  A  mere  dainty  step,  or  a 
curling  lock,  or  a  soft  blue  eye,  are  not  enough ; 
but  in  her  who  has  quickened  the  new  blaze 
there  is  a  blending  of  all  these,  with  a  certain 
sweetness  of  soul  that  finds  expression  in  what- 
ever feature  or  motion  you  look  upon.  Her 
charms  steal  over  you  gently,  and  almost  im- 
perceptibly. You  think  that  she  is  a  pleasant 
companion,— nothing  more;  and  you  find  the 
opinion  strongly  confirmed  day  by  day,— so 
well  confirmed,  indeed,  that  you  begin  to  won- 
der why  it  is  that  she  is  such  a  delightful  com- 
panion? It  cannot  be  her  eye,  for  you  have 
seen  eyes  almost  as  pretty  as  Nelly's;  nor  can 
it  be  her  mouth,  though  Nelly's  mouth  is  cer- 
tainly very  sweet.  And  you  keep  studying 
what  on  earth  it  can  be  that  makes  you  so  earn- 
est to  be  near  her,  or  to  listen  to  her  voice. 
The  study  is  pleasant:  you  do  not  know  any 
study  that  is  more  so,  or  which  you  accomplish 
with  less  mental  fatigue. 

Upon  a  sudden,  some  fine  day,  when  the  air 
is  balmy,  and  the  recollection  of  Nelly's  voice 
and  manner  more  bajmy  still,  you  wonder  if 
you  are  in  love?  When  a  man  has  such  a  won- 

112 


WITH  A  WISP  OF  PAPER 

der,  he  is  either  very  near  love,  or  he  is  very  far 
away  from  it ;  it  is  a  wonder  that  is  either  sug- 
gested by  his  hope,  or  by  that  entanglement  of 
feeling  which  blunts  all  his  perceptions. 

But  if  not  in  love,  you  have  at  least  a  strong 
fancy;  so  strong,  that  you  tell  your  friends 
carelessly  that  she  is  a  nice  girl,  nay,  a  beauti- 
ful girl;  and  if  your  education  has  been  bad, 
you  strengthen  the  epithet  on  your  own  tongue 
with  a  very  wicked  expletive,  of  which  the 
mildest  form  would  be — "deuced  fine  girl!" 
Presently,  however,  you  get  beyond  this,  and 
your  companionship  and  your  wonder  relapse 
into  a  constant,  quiet  habit  of  unmistakable 
love, — not  impulsive,  quick,  and  fiery,  like  the 
first,  but  mature  and  calm.  It  is  as  if  it  were 
born  with  your  soul ;  and  the  recognition  of  it 
was  rather  an  old  remembrance  than  a  fresh 
passion.  It  does  not  seek  to  gratify  its  ex- 
uberance and  force  with  such  relief  as  night- 
serenades,  or  any  Jacques-like  meditations  in 
the  forest;  but  it  is  a  quiet,  still  joy,  that  floats 
on  your  hope  into  the  years  to  come,  making 
the  prospect  all  sunny  and  joyful. 

It  is  a  kind  of  oil  and  balm  for  whatever  was 
stormy  or  harmful;  it  gives  a  permanence  to 
the  smile  of  existence.  It  does  not  make  the 
sea  of  your  life  turbulent  with  high  emotions, 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

as  if  a  strong  wind  were  blowing;  but  it  is  as 
if  an  Aphrodite  had  broken  on  the  surface,  and 
the  ripples  were  spreading  with  a  sweet,  low 
sound,  and  widening  far  out  to  the  very  shores 
of  Time. 

There  is  no  need  now,  as  with  the  boy,  to 
bolster  up  your  feelings  with  extravagant 
vows ;  even  should  you  try  this  in  her  presence, 
the  words  are  lacking  to  put  such  vows  in.  So 
soon  as  you  reach  them,  they  fail  you ;  and  the 
oath  only  quivers  on  the  lip,  or  tells  its  story 
by  a  pressure  of  the  fingers.  You  wear  a 
brusque,  pleasant  air  with  your  acquaintances, 
and  hint— with  a  sly  look— at  possible  changes 
in  your  circumstances.  Of  an  evening,  you 
are  kind  to  the  most  unattractive  of  the  wall- 
flowers,— if  only  your  Nelly  is  away;  and  you 
have  a  sudden  charity  for  street-beggars  with 
pale  children.  You  catch  yourself  taking  a 
step  in  one  of  the  new  polkas,  upon  a  country 
walk ;  and  wonder  immensely  at  the  number  of 
bright  days  which  succeed  each  other,  without 
leaving  a  single  stormy  gap  for  your  old  mel- 
ancholy moods.  Even  the  chambermaids  at 
your  hotel  never  did  their  duty  one  half  so 
well ;  and  as  for  your  man  Tom,  he  is  become  a 
perfect  pattern  of  a  fellow. 

My  cigar  is  in  a  fine  glow;  but  it  has  gone 
out  once,  and  it  may  go  out  again. 

114 


WITH  A  WISP  OF  PAPER 

You  begin  to  talk  of  marriage;  but 

some  obstinate  papa  or  guardian  uncle  thinks 
that  it  will  never  do,— that  it  is  quite  too  soon, 
or  that  Nelly  is  a  mere  girl.  Or,  some  of  your 
wild  oats — quite  forgotten  by  yourself — shoot 
up  on  the  vision  of  a  staid  mamma,  and  throw 
a  very  damp  shadow  on  your  character.  Or, 
the  old  lady  has  an  ambition  of  another  sort, 
which  you,  a  simple,  earnest,  plodding  Bache- 
lor, can  never  gratify ;— being  of  only  passable 
appearance,  and  unschooled  in  the  fashions  of 
the  world,  you  will  be  eternally  rubbing  the 
elbows  of  the  old  lady's  pride. 

All  this  will  be  strangely  afflictive  to  one 
who  has  been  living  for  quite  a  number  of 
weeks  or  months  in  a  pleasant  dream-land, 
where  there  were  no  five  per  cents,  or  reputa- 
tions, but  only  a  very  full  and  delirious  flow  of 
feeling.  What  care  you  for  any  position,  ex- 
cept a  position  near  the  being  that  you  love? 
What  wealth  do  you  prize,  except  a  wealth  of 
heart  that  shall  never  know  diminution ;  or  for 
reputation,  except  that  of  truth  and  of  honor? 
How  hard  it  would  break  upon  these  pleasant 
idealities  to  have  a  wrinkle-faced  old  guardian 
set  his  arm  in  yours,  and  tell  you  how  tenderly 
he  has  at  heart  the  happiness  of  his  niece ;  and 
reason  with  you  about  your  very  small  and 
sparse  dividends,  and  your  limited  business; 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

and  caution  you— for  he  has  a  lively  regard  for 
your  interests— about  continuing  your  ad- 
dresses ? 

The  kind  old  curmudgeon ! 

Your  man  Tom  has  grown  suddenly  a  very 

stupid  fellow ;  and  all  your  charity  for  withered 

'    wall-flowers  is  gone.  Perhaps,  in  your  wrath, 

the  suspicion  comes  over  you  that  she  too 

wishes  you  were  something  higher,  or  more 

^     famous,  or  richer,  or  anything  but  what  you 

are— a  very  dangerous  suspicion;  for  no  man 

with  any  true  nobility  of  soul  can  ever  make 

^  his  heart  the  slave  of  another's  condescension. 

But  no ;  you  will  not,  you  cannot  believe  this 
of  Nelly.  That  face  of  hers  is  too  mild  and 
gracious;  and  her  manner,  as  she  takes  your 
hand  after  your  heart  is  made  sad,  and  turns 
away  those  rich  blue  eyes,  shadowed  more 
deeply  than  ever  by  the  long  and  moistened 
fringe,— and  the  exquisite  softness  and  mean- 
ing of  the  pressure  of  those  little  fingers,— and 
the  low,  half  sob,— and  the  heaving  of  that 
bosom  in  its  struggles  between  love  and  duty, 
— all  forbid.  Nelly,  you  could  swear,  is  ten- 
derly indulgent — like  the  fond  creature  that  she 
is— toward  all  your  shortcomings,  and  would 
not  barter  your  strong  love  and  your  honest 
heart  for  the  greatest  magnate  in  the  land. 

116 


WITH  A  WISP  OF  PAPER 

What  a  spur  to  effort  is  the  confiding  love  of 
a  true-hearted  woman!  That  last  fond  look 
of  hers,  hopeful  and  encouraging,  has  more 
power  within  it  to  nerve  your  soul  to  high 
deeds  than  all  the  admonitions  of  all  your  tu- 
tors. Your  heart,  beating  large  with  hope, 
quickens  the  flow  upon  the  brain,  and  you 
make  wild  vows  to  win  greatness.  But  alas! 
this  is  a  great  world— very  full  and  very 
rough, — 

"all  up-hill  work  when  we  would  do ; 
All  down-hill,  when  we  suffer."1 

Hard,  withering  toil  only  can  achieve  a 
name;  and  long  days  and  months  and  years 
must  be  passed  in  the  chase  of  that  bubble- 
reputation;  which,  when  once  grasped,  breaks 
in  your  eager  clutch  into  a  hundred  lesser 
bubbles  that  soar  above  you  still. 

A  clandestine  meeting  from  time  to  time, 
and  a  note  or  two  tenderly  written,  keep  up 
the  blaze  in  your  heart.  But  presently  the 
lynx-eyed  old  guardian— so  tender  of  your 
interests  and  hers— forbids  even  this  irregular 
and  unsatisfying  correspondence.  Now  you 
can  feed  yourself  only  on  stray  glimpses  of 

1  Festus. 

117 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

her  figure,  as  full  of  sprightliness  and  grace  as 
ever;  and  that  beaming  face,  you  are  half 
sorry  to  see  from  time  to  time,  still  beautiful. 
You  struggle  with  your  moods  of  melancholy 
and  wear  bright  looks  yourself,— bright  to  her, 
and  very  bright  to  the  eye  of  the  old  curmud- 
geon who  has  snatched  your  heart  away.  It 
will  never  do  to  show  your  weakness  to  a  man. 

At  length,  on  some  pleasant  morning,  you 
learn  that  she  is  gone, — too  far  away  to  be 
seen,  too  closely  guarded  to  be  reached.  For 
a  while  you  throw  down  your  books,  and  aban- 
don your  toil  in  despair,  thinking  very  bitter 
thoughts,  and  making  very  hopeless  resolves. 

My  cigar  is  still  burning ;  but  it  will  require 
constant  and  strong  respiration  to  keep  it  in 
a  glow. 

A  letter  or  two,  dispatched  at  random,  re- 
lieve the  excess  of  your  fever,  until,  with 
practice,  these  random  letters  have  even  less 
heat  in  them  than  the  heat  of  your  study  or  of 
your  business.  Grief,  thank  God!  is  not  so 
progressive  or  so  cumulative  as  joy.  For  a 
time  there  is  a  pleasure  in  the  mood  with 
which  you  recall  your  broken  hopes,  and  with 
which  you  selfishly  link  hers  to  the  shattered 
wreck;  but  absence  and  ignorance  tame  the 
point  of  your  woe.  You  call  up  the  image  of 

118 


WITH  A  WISP  OF  PAPER 

Nelly  adorning  other  and  distant  scenes.  You 
see  the  tearful  smile  give  place  to  a  blithesome 
cheer ;  and  the  thought  of  you,  that  shaded  her 
fair  face  so  long,  fades  under  the  sunshine  of 
gayety ;  or,  at  best,  it  only  seems  to  cross  that 
white  forehead  like  a  playful  shadow  that  a 
fleecy  cloud-remnant  will  fling  upon  a  sunny 
lawn. 

As  for  you,  the  world,  with  its  whirl  and 
roar,  is  deafening  the  sweet,  distant  notes  that 
come  up  through  old,  choked  channels  of  the 
affections.  Life  is  calling  for  earnestness,  and 
not  for  regrets.  So  the  months  and  the  years 
slip  by;  your  Bachelor  habit  grows  easy  and 
light  with  wearing;  you  have  mourned  enough 
to  smile  at  the  violent  mourning  of  others ;  and 
you  have  enjoyed  enough  to  sigh  over  their 
little  eddies  of  delight.  Dark  shades  and  de- 
licious streaks  of  crimson  and  gold  color  lie 
upon  your  life.  Your  heart,  with  all  its  weight 
of  ashes,  can  yet  sparkle  at  the  sound  of  a 
fairy  step,  and  your  face  can  yet  open  into  a 
round  of  joyous  smiles— that  are  almost  hopes 
—in  the  presence  of  some  bright-eyed  girl. 

But  amid  this  there  will  float  over  you,  from 
time  to  time,  a  midnight  trance,  in  which  you 
will  hear  again  with  a  thirsty  ear  the  witching 
melody  of  the  days  that  are  gone ;  and  you  will 

119 


REVERES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

wake  from  it  with  a  shudder  into  the  cold 
resolves  of  your  lonely  and  manly  life.  But 
the  shudder  passes  as  easy  as  night  from 
morning.  Tearful  regrets,  and  memories  that 
touch  to  the  quick,  are  dull  weapons  to 
break  through  the  panoply  of  your  seared, 
eager,  and  ambitious  manhood.  They  only 
venture  out,  like  timid,  white-winged  flies, 
when  night  is  come ;  and  at  the  first  glimpse  of 
the  dawn  they  shrivel  up,  and  lie  without  a 
flutter  in  some  corner  of  your  soul. 

And  when,  years  after,  you  learn  that  she 
has  returned — a  woman,  there  is  a  slight  glow, 
but  no  tumultuous  bound  of  the  heart.  Life 
and  time  have  worried  you  down  like  a  spent 
hound.  The  world  has  given  you  a  habit  of 
easy  and  unmeaning  smiles.  You  half  accuse 
yourself  of  ingratitude  and  f orgetfulness ;  but 
the  accusation  does  not  oppress  you.  It  does 
not  even  distract  your  attention  from  the  morn- 
ing journal.  You  cannot  work  yourself  into 
a  respectable  degree  of  indignation  against  the 
old  gentleman — her  guardian. 

You  sigh — poor  thing ! — and  in  a  very  flashy 
waist-coat  you  venture  a  morning  call. 

She  meets  you  kindly,— a  comely,  matronly 
dame  in  gingham,  with  her  curls  all  gathered 
under  a  high-topped  comb;  and  she  presents 

1 20 


WITH  A  WISP  OF  PAPER 

to  you  two  little  boys  in  smart  crimson  jackets 
dressed  up  with  braid;  and  you  dine  with 
Madame — a  family  party;  and  the  wrinkle- 
faced  old  gentleman  meets  you  with  a  most 
pleasant  shake  of  the  hand, — hints  that  you 
were  among  his  niece's  earliest  friends,  and 
hopes  that  you  are  getting  on  well. 

Capitally  well ! 

And  the  boys  toddle  in  at  dessert,— Dick, 
to  get  a  plum  from  your  own  dish;  Tom,  to 
be  kissed  by  his  rosy-faced  papa.  In  short,  you 
are  made  perfectly  at  home;  and  you  sit  over 
your  wine  for  an  hour,  in  a  cosy  smoke  with 
the  gentlemanly  uncle,  and  with  the  very  cour- 
teous husband  of  your  second  flame. 

It  is  all  very  jovial  at  the  table;  for  good 
wine  is,  I  'find,  a  great  strengthener  of  the 
Bachelor  heart.  But  afterward,  when  night  has 
fairly  set  in,  and  the  blaze  of  your  fire  goes 
flickering  over  your  lonely  quarters,  you  heave 
a  deep  sigh.  And  as  your  thought  runs  back 
to  the  perfidious  Louise,  and  calls  up  the  mar- 
ried and  matronly  Nelly,  you  sob  over  that 
poor  dumb  heart  within  you,  which  craves  so 
madly  a  free  and  joyous  utterance.  And  as  you 
lean  over,  with  your  forehead  on  your  hand, 
and  your  eyes  fall  upon  the  old  hound  slumber- 
ing on  the  rug,  vain  regrets  torment  you,  and 

121 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

you  wish  that  you  had  married  years  ago,  and 
that  you  too  had  your  pair  of  prattling  boys, 
to  drive  away  the  loneliness  of  your  solitary 
hearth-stone. 

My  cigar  would  not  go ;  it  is  fairly  out. 

But,  with  true  Bachelor  obstinacy,  I  vowed 
that  I  would  light  again. 


122 


Ill 

LIGHTED  WITH  A  MATCH 

I  HATE  a  match.  I  feel  sure  that  brimstone 
matches  were  never  made  in  heaven;  and  it  is 
sad  to  think  that,  with  few  exceptions,  matches 
are  all  of  them  tipped  with  brimstone. 

But  my  taper  having  burned  out,  and  the 
coals  being  all  dead  upon  the  hearth,  a  match 
is  all  that  is  left  to  me. 

All  matches  will  not  blaze  on  the  first  trial ; 
and  there  are  those  that,  with  the  most  inde- 
fatigable coaxings,  never  show  a  spark.  They 
may  indeed  leave  in  their  trail  phosphorescent 
streaks,  but  you  can  no  more  light  your  cigar 
at  them  than  you  can  kindle  your  heart  at  the 
covered  wife-trails  which  the  infernal,  gossip- 
ing, old  match-makers  will  lay  in  your  path. 

Was  there  ever  a  Bachelor  of  seven-and- 
twenty,  I  wonder,  who  has  not  been  haunted 
by  pleasant  old  ladies,  and  trim,  excellent, 
good-natured  married  friends,  who  talk  to  him 
about  nice  matches — "very  nice  matches," - 
matches  which  never  go  off?  And  who,  pray, 
has  not  had  some  kind  old  uncle  to  fill  two 
sheets  for  him  (perhaps  in  the  time  of  heavy 

123 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

postages)  about  some  most  eligible  connection 
— "of  highly  respectable  parentage!" 

What  a  delightful  thing,  surely,  for  a  with- 
ered Bachelor,  to  bloom  forth  in  the  dignity  of 
an  ancestral  tree!  What  a  precious  surprise 
for  him,  who  has  all  his  life  worshipped  the 
wing-heeled  Mercury,  to  find  on  a  sudden  a 
great  stock  of  preserved  and  most  respectable 
Penates ! 

In  God's  name,  thought  I,  puffing  ve- 
hemently, what  is  a  man's  heart  given  him  for, 
if  not  to  choose  where  his  heart's  blood,  every 
drop  of  it,  is  flowing?  Who  is  going  to  dam 
these  billowy  tides  of  the  soul,  whose  roll  is 
ordered  by  a  planet  greater  than  the  moon,  and 
that  planet— Venus?  Who  is  going  to  shift 
this  vane  of  my  desires,  when  every  breeze 
that  passes  in  my  heaven  is  keeping  it  all  the 
more  strongly  to  its  fixed  bearings? 

Besides  this,  there  are  the  money-matches, 
urged  upon  you  by  disinterested  bachelor  friends, 
who  would  be  very  proud  to  see  you  at  the 
head  of  an  establishment.  And  I  must  confess 
that  this  kind  of  talk  has  a  pleasant  jingle  about 
it,  and  is  one  of  the  cleverest  aids  to  a 
Bachelor's  day-dreams  that  can  well  be  imag- 
ined. And  let  not  the  pouting  lady  condemn 
me  without  a  hearing. 

124 


LIGHTED  WITH  A  MATCH 

It  is  certainly  cheerful  to  think— for  a  con- 
templative Bachelor— that  the  pretty  ermine 
which  so  sets  off  the  transparent  hue  of  your 
imaginary  wife,  or  the  lace  which  lies  so  be- 
witchingly  upon  the  superb  roundness  of  her 
form,  or  the  graceful  bodice,  trimmed  to  a  line, 
which  is  of  such  exquisite  adaptation  to  her  lithe 
figure,  will  be  always  at  her  command;  nay, 
that  these  are  only  units  among  the  chameleon 
hues,  under  which  you  shall  feed  upon  her 
beauty!  I  want  to  know  if  it  is  not  a  pretty 
cabinet  picture  for  fancy  to  luxuriate  upon — 
that  of  a  sweet  wife,  who  is  cheating  hosts  of 
friends  into  love,  sympathy,  and  admiration, 
by  the  modest  munificence  of  her  wealth?  Is 
it  not  rather  agreeable  to  feed  your  hopeful 
soul  upon  that  abundance,  which,  while  it  sup- 
plies her  need,  will  give  a  range  to  her  loving 
charities;  which  will  keep  from  her  brow  the 
shadows  of  anxiety,  and  will  sublime  her  gentle 
nature,  by  adding  to  it  the  grace  of  an  angel 
of  mercy? 

Is  it  not  rich,  in  those  days  when  the  pesti- 
lent humors  of  Bachelorhood  hang  heavy  on 
you,  to  foresee  in  that  shadowy  realm,  where 
hope  is  a  native,  the  quiet  of  a  home  made 
splendid  with  attractions,  and  made  real  by 
the  presence  of  her  who  bestows  them  ?  Upon 

125 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

my  word,— thought  I,  as  I  continued  puffing, 
— such  a  match  must  make  a  very  grateful 
lighting  of  one's  inner  sympathies;  nor  am  I 
prepared  to  say  that  such  associations  would 
not  add  force  to  the  most  abstract  love  im- 
aginable. 

Think  of  it  for  a  moment :  what  is  it  that  we 
poor  fellows  love?  We  love— if  one  may 
judge  for  himself,  over  his  cigar— gentleness, 
beauty,  refinement,  generosity,  and  intelli- 
gence,— and  far  above  these,  a  returning  love, 
made  up  of  all  these  qualities,  and  gaining 
upon  your  love,  day  by  day  and  month  by 
month,  like  a  sunny  morning  gaining  upon  the 
frosts  of  night. 

But  wealth  is  a  great  means  of  refinement ; 
and  it  is  a  security  for  gentleness,  since  it  re- 
moves disturbing  anxieties;  and  it  is  a  pretty 
promoter  of  intelligence,  since  it  multiplies 
the  avenues  for  its  reception;  and  it  is  a  gobd 
basis  for  a  generous  habit  of  life :  it  even  equips 
beauty,  neither  hardening  its  hand  with  toil, 
nor  tempting  the  wrinkles  to  come  early.  But 
whether  it  provokes  greatly  that  returning  pas- 
sion, that  abnegation  of  soul,  that  sweet  trust- 
fulness and  abiding  affection  which  are  to 
clothe  your  heart  with  joy,  is  far  more  doubt- 
ful. Wealth,  while  it  gives  so  much,  asks 

126 


LIGHTED  WITH  A  MATCH 

much  in  return;  and  the  soul  that  is  grateful 
to  mammon  is  not  over-ready  to  be  grateful 
for  intensity  of  love.  It  is  hard  to  gratify 
those  who  have  nothing  left  to  gratify. 

Heaven  help  the  man,  who,  having  wearied 
his  soul  with  delays  and  doubts,  or  exhausted 
the  freshness  and  exuberance  of  his  youth  by 
a  hundred  little  dallyings  of  love,  consigns 
himself  at  length  to  the  issues  of  what  people 
call  a  nice  match, — whether  of  money,  or  of 
family. 

Heaven  help  you  (I  brushed  the  ashes  from"1 
my  cigar)  when  you  begin  to  regard  marriage 
as  only  a  respectable  institution,  and  under  the 
advices  of  staid  old  friends  begin  to  look  about 
you  for  some  very  respectable  wife !  You  may 
admire  her  figure,  and  her  family,  and  bear 
pleasantly  in  mind  the  very  casual  mention 
which  has  been  made  by  some  of  your  penetrat- 
ing friends  that  she  has  large  expectations. 
You  think  that  she  would  make  a  very  capital 
appearance  at  the  head  of  your  table;  nor,  in 
the  event  of  your  coming  to  any  public  honor, 
would  she  make  you  blush  for  her  breeding. 
She  talks  well,  exceedingly  well ;  and  her  face 
has  its  charms,  especially  under  a  little  excite- 
ment. Her  dress  is  elegant  and  tasteful,  and 
she  is  constantly  remarked  upon  by  all  your 

127 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

friends  as  a  "nice  person."  Some  good  old 
lady,  in  whose  pew  she  occasionally  sits  of  a 
Sunday,  or  to  whom  she  has  sometimes  sent 
a  papier-mache  card-case  for  the  show-box  of 
some  Dorcas  benevolent  society,  thinks  with 
a  sly  wink,  that  she  would  make  a  fine  wife  for 
— somebody. 

She  certainly  has  an  elegant  figure ;  and  the 
marriage  of  some  half-dozen  of  your  old  flames 
warn  you  that  time  is  slipping  and  your 
chances  failing..  And  in  the  pleasant  warmth 
of  some  after-dinner  mood  you  resolve— with 
her  image  in  her  prettiest  pelisse  drifting 
across  your  brain— that  you  will  marry.  Now 
comes  the  pleasant  excitement  of  the  chase; 
and  whatever  family  dignity  may  surround 
her,  only  adds  to  the  pleasurable  glow  of  the 
pursuit.  You  give  an  hour  more  to  your  toil- 
ette, and  a  hundred  or  two  more  a  year  to  your 
tailor.  All  is  orderly,  dignified,  and  gracious. 
Charlotte  is  a  sensible  woman,  everybody  says ; 
and  you  believe  it  yourself.  You  agree  in 
your  talk  about  books,  and  churches,  and 
flowers.  Of  course  she  has  good  taste— for 
she  accepts  you.  The  acceptance  is  dignified, 
elegant,  and  even  courteous. 

You  receive  numerous  congratulations;  and 
your  old  friend  Tom  writes  you— that  he  hears 

128 


LIGHTED  WITH  A  MATCH 

you  are  going  to  marry  a  splendid  woman; 
and  .  all  the  old  ladies  say— what  a  capital 
match!  And  your  business  partner,  who  is  a 
married  man  and  something  of  a  wag,  "  sym- 
pathizes sincerely."  Upon  the  whole,  you  feel 
a  little  proud  of  your  arrangement.  You  write 
to  an  old  friend  in  the  country  that  you  are  to 
marry  presently  Miss  Charlotte  of  such  a 
street,  whose  father  was  something  very  fine  in 
his  way,  and  whose  father  before  him  was 
very  distinguished;  you  add,  in  a  postscript, 
that  she  is  easily  situated,  and  has  "  expecta- 
tions." Your  friend,  who  has  a  wife  that  he 
loves  and  that  loves  him,  writes  back  kindly, 
— "hoping  you  may  be  happy" ;  and  hoping  so 
yourself,  you  light  your  cigar — one  of  your 
last  bachelor  cigars — with  the  margin  of  his 
letter. 

The  match  goes  off  with  a  brilliant  marriage, 
—at  which  you  receive  a  very  elegant  welcome 
from  your  wife's  spinster  cousins,  and  drink  a 
great  deal  of  champagne  with  her  bachelor 
uncles.  And  as  you  take  the  dainty  hand  of 
your  bride,— very  magnificent  under  that  bridal 
wreath,  and  with  her  face  lit  up  by  a  brilliant 
glow,— your  eye  and  your  soul  for  the  first 
time  grow  full.  And  as  your  arm  circles  that 
elegant  figure,  and  you  draw  her  toward  you, 

129 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

feeling  that  she  is  yours,  there  is  a  bound  at 
your  heart  that  makes  you  think  your  life  is 
now  whole  and  earnest.  All  your  early  dreams 
and  imaginations  come  flowing  on  your 
thought  like  bewildering  music;  and  as  you 
gaze  upon  her, — the  admiration  of  that  crowd, 
— it  seems  to  you  that  all  that  your  heart  prizes 
is  made  good  by  the  accident  of  marriage. 

—Ah,  thought  I,  brushing  off  the  ashes 
again,  bridal  pictures  are  not  home  pictures, 
and  the  hour  at  the  altar  is  but  a  poor  type  of 
the  waste  of  years ! 

Your  household  is  elegantly  ordered;  Char- 
lotte has  secured  the  best  of  housekeepers,  and 
she  meets  the  compliments  of  your  old  friends, 
who  come  to  dine  with  you,  with  a  suavity  that 
is  never  at  fault.  And  they  tell  you— after 
the  cloth  is  removed,  and  you  sit  quietly 
smoking  in  memory  of  the  olden  times — that 
she  is  a  splendid  woman.  Even  the  old  ladies 
who  come  for  occasional  charities,  think  Mad- 
ame a  pattern  of  a  lady;  and  so  think  her  old 
admirers,  whom  she  receives  still  with  an  easy 
grace  that  half  puzzles  you.  And  as  you  stand 
by  the  ball-room  door,  at  two  of  the  morning, 
with  your  Charlotte's  shawl  upon  your  arm, 
some  little  panting  fellow  will  confirm  the  gen- 
eral opinion  by  telling  you  that  Madame  is  a 

130 


LIGHTED  WITH  A  MATCH 

magnificent  dancer;  and  Monsieur  le  Comte 
will  praise  extravagantly  her  French.  You  are 
grateful  for  all  this;  but  you  have  an  uncom- 
monly serious  way  of  expressing  your  grati- 
tude. 

You  think  you  ought  to  be  a  very  happy 
fellow;  and  yet  long  shadows  do  steal  over 
your  thought,  and  you  wonder  that  the  sight 
of  your  Charlotte  in  the  dress  you  used  to  ad- 
mire so  much  does  not  scatter  them  to  the 
winds;  but  it  does  not.  You  feel  coy  about 
putting  your  arm  around  that  delicately  robed 
figure, — you  might  derange  the  plaitings  of 
her  dress.  She  is  civil  toward  you,  and  tender 
toward  your  bachelor  friends.  She  talks  with 
dignity,— adjusts  her  lace  cape,— and  hopes 
you  will  make  a  figure  in  the  world,  for  the 
sake  of  the  family.  Her  cheek  is  never  soiled 
with  a  tear,  and  her  smiles  are  frequent,  espec- 
ially when  you  have  some  spruce  young  fellows 
at  your  table. 

You  catch  sight  of  occasional  notes  perhaps, 
whose  superscription  you  do  not  know;  and 
some  of  her  admirers'  attentions  become  so 
pointed  and  constant  that  your  pride  is  stirred. 
It  would  be  silly  to  show  jealousy;  but  you 
suggest  to  your  "  dear  "—as  you  sip  your  tea 
— the  slight  impropriety  of  her  action. 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

Perhaps  you  fondly  long  for  some  little 
scene,  as  a  proof  of  wounded  confidence;  but 
no— nothing  of  that;  she  trusts  (calling  you 
"my  dear")  that  she  knows  how  to  sustain 
the  dignity  of  her  position. 

You  are  too  sick  at  heart  to  comment,  or 
for  reply. 

And  is  this  the  intertwining  of  soul,  of 

which  you  had  dreamed  in  the  days  that  are 
gone?  Is  this  the  blending  of  sympathies  that 
was  to  steal  from  life  its  bitterness,  and  spread 
over  care  and  suffering  the  sweet  ministering 
hand  of  kindness  and  of  love?  Aye,  you  may 
well  wander  back  to  your  Bachelor  club,  and 
make  the  hours  long  at  the  journals,  or  at  play, 
—killing  the  flagging  lapse  of  your  life.  Talk 
in  sprightly  way  with  your  old  friends,  and 
mimic  the  joy  you  have  not,— or  you  will  wear 
a  bad  name  upon  your  hearth,  and  head.  Never 
suffer  your  Charlotte  to  catch  sight  of  your 
moods  of  despondency;  or  to  hear  the  sighs 
which  in  your  times  of  solitary  musings  may 
break  forth  sudden  and  heavy.  Go  on  counter- 
feiting your  life  as  you  have  begun.  It  was  a 
nice  match;  and  you  are  a  nice  husband. 

But  you  have  a  little  boy,  thank  God !  toward 
whom  your  heart  runs  out  freely ;  and  you  love 
to  catch  him  in  his  respite  from  your  well- 

132 


LIGHTED  WITH  A  MATCH 

ordered  nursery  and  the  tasks  of  his  teachers— 
alone;  and  to  spend  upon  him  a  little  of  that 
depth  of  feeling  which  through  so  many-  years 
has  scarce  been  stirred.  You  play  with  him  at 
his  games ;  you  fondle  him ;  you  take  him  to 
your  bosom. 

—But  papa,  he  says,  see  how  you  have 
tumbled  my  collar.  What  shall  I  tell  mamma  ? 

Tell  her,  my  boy,  that  I  love  you ! 

Ah!  thought  I,  (my  cigar  was  getting  dull 
and  nauseous,)  is  there  not  a  spot  in  your 
heart  that  the  gloved  hand  of  your  elegant  wife 
has  never  reached,— that  you  wish  it  might 
reach  ? 

You  go  to  see  a  far-away  friend :  his  was s 
not  a  "nice  match" ;  he  was  married  years 
before  you,  and.  yet  the  beaming  looks  of  his 
wife,  and  his  lively  smile,  are  as  fresh  and  hon- 
est as  they  were  years  ago ;  and  they  make  you  j 
ashamed  of  your  disconsolate  humor.  Your 
stay  is  lengthened,  but  the  home  letters  are  not 
urgent  for  your  return;  yet  they  are  marvel- 
lously proper  letters,  and  rounded  with  a 
French  adieu.  You  could  have  wished  a  little 
scrawl  from  your  boy  at  the  bottom,  in  place 
of  the  postscript  which  gives  you  the  names  of 
a  new  opera  troupe;  and  you  hint  as  much, — 
a  very  bold  stroke  for  you. 

133 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

Ben,  she  says,  writes  too  shamefully. 

And  at  your  return  there  is  no  great  antici- 
pation of  delight;  in  contrast  with  the  old 
dreams  that  a  pleasant  summer's  journey  has 
called  up,  your  parlor,  as  you  enter  it, — so 
elegant,  so  still,  so  modish,— seems  the  charnel- 
house  of  your  heart 

By-and-by  you  fall  into  weary  days  of  sick- 
ness; you  have  capital  nurses,  nurses  highly 
recommended,  nurses  who  never  make  mis- 
takes, nurses  who  have  served  long  in  the  fam- 
ily. But  alas  for  that  heart  of  sympathy,  and 
for  that  sweet  face  shaded  with  your  pain, — 
like  a  soft  landscape  with  flying  clouds,— you 
have  none  of  them.  Your  pattern  wife  may 
come  in,  from  time  to  time,  to  look  after  your 
nurse,  or  to  ask  after  your  sleep,  and  glide 
out,— her  silk  dress  rustling  upon  the  door, 
like  dead  leaves  in  the  cool  night-breezes  of 
winter.  Or  perhaps,  after  putting  this  chair 
in  its  place,  and  adjusting  to  a  more  tasteful 
fold  that  curtain,  she  will  ask  you,  with  a  tone 
that  might  mean  sympathy  if  it  were  not  a 
stranger  to  you,  if  she  can  do  anything  more? 

Thank  her,  as  kindly  as  you  can,  and  close 
your  eyes,  and  dream ;  or  rouse  up,  to  lay  your 
hand  upon  the  head  of  your  little  boy, — to 
drink  in  health  and  happiness  from  his  earnest 

134 


LIGHTED  WITH  A  MATCH 

look,  as  he  gazes  strangely  upon  your  pale  and 
shrunken  forehead.  Your  smile  even,  ghastly 
with  long  suffering,  disturbs  him;  there  is  no 
interpreter  save  the  heart,  between  you. 

Your  parched  lips  feel  strangely,  to  his 
flushed,  healthful  face;  and  he  steps  about  on 
tiptoe,  at  a  motion  from  the  nurse,  to  look  at 
all  those  rosy-colored  medicines  upon  the  table ; 
and  he  takes  your  cane  from  the  corner  and 
passes  his  hand  over  the  smooth  ivory  head; 
and  he  runs  his  eye  along  the  wall,  from  picture 
to  picture,  till  it  rests  on  one  he  knows, — a 
figure  in  bridal  dress,  beautiful,  almost  fond, 
and  he  forgets  himself,  and  says  aloud, 
"There  's  mamma !" 

The  nurse  puts  her  finger  to  her  lip;  you 
waken  from  your  doze  to  see  where  your  eager 
boy  is  looking;  and  your  eyes  too  take  in  as 
much  as  they  can  of  that  figure,  now  shadowy 
to  your  fainting  vision — doubly  shadowy  to 
your  fainting  heart. 

From  day  to  day  you  sink  from  life:  the 
physician  says  the  end  is  not  far  off;  why 
should  it  be?  There  is  very  little  elastic  force 
within  you  to  keep  the  end  away.  Madame  is 
called,  and  your  little  boy.  Your  sight  is  dim, 
but  they  whisper  that  she  is  beside  your  bed; 
and  you  reach  out  your  hand — both  hands. 

135 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

You  fancy  you  hear  a  sob:  a  strange  sound! 
It  seems  as  if  it  came  from  distant  years, — 
a  confused,  broken  sigh,  sweeping  over  the 
long  stretch  of  your  life ;  and  a  sigh  from  your 
heart,  not  audible,  answers  it. 

Your  trembling  fingers  clutch  the  hand  of 
your  little  boy,  and  you  drag  him  toward  you, 
and  move  your  lips  as  if  you  would  speak  to 
him ;  and  they  place  his  head  near  you,  so  that 
you  feel  his  fine  hair  brushing  your  cheek. — 
My  boy,  you  must  love — your  mother! 

Your  other  hand  feels  a  quick,  convulsive 
grasp,  and  something  like  a  tear  drops  upon 
your  face.  Good  God!  Can  it  indeed  be  a 
tear? 

You  strain  your  vision,  and  a  feeble  smile 
flits  over  your  features  as  you  seem  to  see  her 
figure— the  figure  of  the  painting— bending 
over  you;  and  you  feel  a  bound  at  your  heart, 
— the  same  bound  that  you  felt  on  your  bridal 
morning,  the  same  bound  which  you  used  to 
feel  in  the  spring-time  of  your  life. 

Only  one— rich,  full  bound  of  the  heart : 

—that  is  all. 

My  cigar  was  out.  I  could  not  have  lit 

it  again,  if  I  would.  It  was  wholly  burned. 

"Aunt  Tabithy,"  said  I,  as  I  finished  read- 
ing, "may  I  smoke  now  under  your  rose-tree  ?" 

136 


LIGHTED  WITH  A  MATCH 

Aunt  Tabithy,  who  had  laid  down  her  knit- 
ting to  hear  me,  smiled,  brushed  the  dimness 
from  her  old  eyes,  said,  "Yes,  Isaac ;"  and  hav- 
ing scratched  the  back  of  her  head  with  the 
disengaged  needle,  resumed  her  knitting. 


137 


FOURTH  REVERIE 

MORNING,  NOON,  AND  EVENING 


MORNING,  NOON,  AND  EVENING 


IT  is  a  spring  day  under  the  oaks,  the  loved 
oaks  of  a  once  cherished  home,  now,  alas ! 
mine  no  longer. 

I  had  sold  the  old  farm-house,  and  the 
groves,  and  the  cool  springs  where  I  had 
bathed  my  head  in  the  heats  of  summer;  and 
with  the  first  warm  days  of  May  they  were  to 
pass  from  me  forever.  Seventy  years  they  had 
been  in  the  possession  of  my  mother's  family; 
for  seventy  years  they  had  borne  the  same 
name  of  proprietorship;  for  seventy  years  the 
Lares  of  our  country  home— often  neglected, 
almost  forgotten,  yet  brightened  from  time  to 
time  by  gleams  of  renewed  worship — had  held 
their  place  in  the  pretty  valley  of  Elmgrove. 

And  in  this  changeful,  bustling,  American 
life  of  ours,  seventy  years  is  no  child's  holi- 
day. The  hurry  of  action  and  progress  may 
pass  over  it  with  quick  step,  but  the  footprints 
are  many  and  deep.  You  surely  will  not  won- 
der that  it  made  me  serious  and  thoughtful  to 

141 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

break  the  chain  of  years  that  bound  to  my 
heart  the  oaks,  the  hills,  the  springs,  the  valley, 
— and  such  a  valley! 

A  wild  stream  runs  through  it, — large 
enough  to  make  a  river  for  English  land- 
scape,— winding  between  rich  banks,  where  in 
summer-time  the  swallows  build  their  nests, 
and  brood  by  myriads. 

Tall  elms  rise  here  and  there  along  the  mar- 
gin, and  with  their  uplifted  arms  and  leafy 
spray  throw  great  patches  of  shade  upon  the 
meadow.  Old  lion-like  oaks,  too,  where  the 
meadow-soil  hardens  into  rolling  upland, 
fasten  to  the  ground  with  their  ridgy  roots,  and 
with  their  gray,  scraggy  limbs  make  delicious 
shelter  for  the  panting  workers,  or  for  the 
herds  of  August. 

Westward  of  the  stream — where  I  am  lying 
— the  banks  roll  up  swiftly  into  sloping  hills 
covered  with  groves  of  oaks,  and  green  pasture 
lands  dotted  with  mossy  rocks.  And  farther 
on,  where  some  wood  has  been  swept  down, 
some  ten  years  gone,  by  the  axe,  the  new 
growth,  heavy  with  the  luxuriant  foliage  of 
spring,  covers  wide  spots  of  the  slanting  land ; 
while  some  dead  tree  in  the  midst  still  stretches 
out  its  bare  arms  to  the  blast, — a  solitary 
mourner  over  the  wreck  of  its  forest  brothers. 

142 


MORNING,  NOON,  AND  EVENING 

Eastward,  the  ridgy  bank  passes  into  wavy 
meadows,  upon  whose  farther  edge  you  see  the 
roofs  of  an  old  mansion,  with  tall  chimneys, 
and  taller  elm-trees  shading  it.  Beyond,  the 
hills  rise  gently,  and  sweep  away  into  wood- 
crowned  heights  that  are  blue  with  distance. 
At  the  upper  end  of  the  valley  the  stream  is 
lost  to  the  eye  in  a  wide  swamp  wood,  which 
in  the  autumn-time  is  covered  with  a  scarlet 
sheet,  blotched  here  and  there  by  the  dark 
crimson  stains  of  the  ash-tops.  Farther  on, 
the  hills  crowd  close  to  the  brook,  and  come 
down  with  granite  boulders,  and  scattered 
birch-trees  and  beeches,— under  which,  upon 
the  smoky  mornings  of  May,  I  have  time  and 
again  loitered,  and  thrown  my  line  into  the 
pools,  which  curl,  dark  and  still,  under  their 
tangled  roots. 

Below,  and  looking  southward,  through  the 
openings  of  the  oaks  that  shade  me,  I  see  a 
broad  stretch  of  meadow,  with  glimpses  of  the 
silver  surface  of  the  stream,  and  of  the  giant 
solitary  elms,  and  of  some  old  maple  that  has 
yielded  to  the  spring-tides,  and  now  dips  its 
lower  boughs  in  the  insidious  current;  and  of 
clumps  of  alders,  and  willow-tufts, — above 
which  even  now  the  black-and-white-coated 
Bob-o'-Lincoln  is  wheeling  his  musical  flight, 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

while  his  quieter  mate  sits  swaying  on  the  top- 
most twigs. 

A  quiet  road  passes  within  a  short  distance 
of  me,  and  crosses  the  brook  by  a  rude  timber 
bridge;  beside  the  bridge  is  a  broad,  glassy 
pool,  shaded  by  old  maples  and  hickories, 
where  the  cattle  drink  each  morning  on  their 
way  to  the  hill-pastures.  A  step  or  two  beyond 
the  stream,  a  lane  branches  across  the 
meadows  to  the  mansion  with  the  tall  chim- 
neys. I  can  just  remember  now  the  stout, 
broad-shouldered  old  gentleman — with  his 
white  hat,  his  long  white  hair,  and  his  white- 
headed  cane— who  built  the  house,  and  who 
farmed  the  whole  valley  around  me.  He  is 
gone  long  since,  and  lies  in  a  grave-yard  look- 
ing upon  the  sea.  The  elms  that  he  planted 
shake  their  weird  arms  over  the  mouldering 
roofs;  and  his  fruit-garden  shows  only  a  bat- 
tered phalanx  of  mossy  limbs,  which  will 
scarce  tempt  the  July  marauders. 

In  the  other  direction,  upon  this  side  of  the 

brook,  the  road  is  lost  to  view  among  the  trees ; 

but  if  I  were  to  follow  the  windings  upon  the 

\"   hill-side,  it  would  bring  me  shortly  upon  the 

old   home   of   my  grandfather:    there   is   no 

pleasure  in  wandering  there  now.    The  woods, 

that  sheltered  it  from  the  northern  winds,  are 

144 


MORNING,  NOON,  AND  EVENING 

cut  down ;  the  tall  cherries,  that  made  the  yard 
one  leafy  bower,  are  dead.  The  cornice  is 
straggling  from  the  eaves ;  the  porch  has  fallen ; 
the  stone  chimney  is  yawning  with  wide  gaps. 
Within  it  is  even  worse :  the  floors  sway  upon  the 
mouldering  beams ;  the  doors  all  sag  from  their 
hinges;  the  rude  frescos  upon  the  parlor-wall 
are  peeling  off;  all  is  going  to  decay,  and  my 
grandfather  is  buried  in  a  little  grave-yard, 
by  the  garden-wall. 

A  lane  branches  from  the  country  road  with- 
in a  few  yards  of  me,  and  leads  back,  along  the 
edge  of  the  meadow,  to  the  homely  cottage 
which  has  been  my  special  care.  Its  gray  porch 
and  chimney  are  thrown  into  rich  relief  by  a 
grove  of  oaks  that  skirts  the  hill  behind  it; 
and  the  doves  are  flying  uneasily  about  the 
open  doors  of  the  granary  and  barns.  The 
morning  sun  shines  pleasantly  on  the  gray 
group  of  buildings;  and  the  lowing  of  the 
cows,  not  yet  driven  a-field,  adds  to  the  charm- 
ing homeliness  of  the  scene.  But  alas  for  the 
poor  azaleas,  and  laurels,  and  vines,  that  I  had 
put  out  upon  the  little  knoll  before  the  cottage- 
door;  they  are  all  of  them  trodden  down; 
only  one  poor  creeper  hangs  its  loose  tresses 
to  the  lattice,  all  dishevelled  and  forlorn. 

This  by-lane,  which  opens  upon  the  farm- 

145 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

house,  leaves  the  road  in  the  middle  of  a  grove 
of  oaks ;  the  brown  gate  swings  upon  an  oak- 
tree, — the  brown  gate  closes  upon  an  oak-tree. 
There  is  a  rustic  seat,  built  between  two  vet- 
eran trees  that  rise  from  a  little  hillock  near  by. 
Half  a  century  ago,  there  was  a  rustic  seat  on 
the  same  hillock,  between  the  same  veteran 
trees.  I  can  trace  marks  of  the  old  blotches 
upon  the  bark,  and  the  scars  of  the  nails  upon 
the  scathed  trunks.  Time  and  time  again  it 
has  been  renewed.  This,  the  last,  was  built 
by  my  own  hands, — a  cheerful  and  a  holy 
duty. 

Sixty  years  ago,  they  tell  me,  my  grand- 
father used  to  loiter  here  with  his  gun,  while 
his  hounds  lay  around  under  the  scattered  oaks. 
Now  he  sleeps,  as  I  said,  in  the  little  grave- 
yard yonder,  where  I  can  see  one  or  two  white 
tablets  glimmering  through  the  foliage.  I 
never  knew  him;  he  died,  as  the  brown  stone 
table  says,  aged  twenty-six.  Yesterday  I 
climbed  the  wall  that  skirts  the  yard,  and 
plucked  a  flower  from  his  tomb.  I  take  out 
now  from  my  pocket-book  that  flower, — a 
frail,  first-blooming  violet, — and  write  upon 
the  slip  of  paper  into  which  I  have  thrust  its 
delicate  stem :  "From  my  grandfather's  tomb : 
-1850." 

But  other  feet  have  trod  upon  this  knoll— 

146 


MORNING,  NOON,  AND  EVENING 

far  more  dear  to  me.  The  old  neighbors  have 
sometimes  told  me  how  they  have  seen,  forty 
years  ago,  two  rosy-faced  girls  idling  iDn  this 
spot  under  the  shade,  and  gathering  acorns, 
and  making  oak-leaved  garlands  for  their  fore- 
heads. Alas,  the  garlands  they  wear  now  are 
not  earthly  garlands. 

Upon  that  spot,  and  upon  that  rustic  seat,  I 
am  lying  this  May  morning.  I  have  placed  my 
gun  against  a  tree ;  my  shot-pouch  I  have  hung 
upon  a  broken  limb.  I  have  thrown  my  feet 
upon  the  bench,  and  lean  against  one  of  the 
gnarled  oaks  between  which  the  seat  is  built. 
My  book  and  paper  are  beside  me,  and  my  pen- 
cil trembles  in  my  fingers  as  I  catch  sight  of 
those  white  marble  tablets  gleaming  through 
the  trees,  from  the  height  above  me,  like 
beckoning  angel-faces.  If  they  were  alive! — 
two  more  near  and  dear  friends,  in  a  world 
where  we  count  friends  by  units. 

It  is  morning — a  bright  spring  morning 
under  the  oaks — those  loved  oaks  of  a  once 
cherished  home.  Last  night  I  slept  in  the  old 
house  under  the  elms.  The  cattle  going  to 
the  pasture  are  drinking  in  the  pool  by  the 
bridge;  the  boy,  who  drives  them,  is  making 
his  shrill  halloo  echo  against  the  hills.  The 
sun  has  risen  fairly  over  the  eastern  heights, 
and  shines  brightly  upon  the  meadow  land, 

147 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

and  brightly  upon  a  bend  of  the  brook  below 
me.  The  birds— the  bluebirds  sweetest  and 
noisest  of  all — are  singing  over  me  in  the 
branches.  A  wood-pecker  is  hammering  at  a 
dry  limb  aloft;  and  Carlo  pricks  up  his  ears 
and  listens,  and  looks  at  me, — then  stretches 
out  his  head  upon  his  paws,  in  a  warm  bit  of 
the  sunshine,  and  sleeps. 

Morning  brings  back  to  me  the  Past;  and 
the  past  brings  up  not  only  its  actualities,  not 
only  its  events  and  memories,  but — stranger 
still — what  might  have  been.  Every  little  cir- 
cumstance, which  dawns  on  the  awakened 
memory,  is  traced  not  only  to  its  actual,  but 
to  its  possible  issues. 

What  a  wide  world  that  makes  of  the  Past ! 
—a  great  and  gorgeous,  a  rich  and  solemn 
world!  Your  fancy  fills  it  up  artist-like;  the 
darkness  is  mellowed  off  into  soft  shades;  the 
bright  spots  are  veiled  in  the  sw,eet  atmo- 
sphere of  distance;  and  fancy  and  memory  to- 
gether make  up  a  rich  dream-land  of  the  past. 

And  now,  as  I  go  on  to  trace  upon  paper  some 
of  the  visions  that  float  across  that  dream-land 
of  the  Morning,  I  will  not— I  cannot  say,  how 
much  comes  fancy-wise,  and  how  much  from 
this  vaulting  memory.  Of  this  the  kind  reader 
shall  himself  be  judge. 

148 


I 

THE  MORNING 

ISABEL  and  I — she  is  my  cousin,  and  is  seven  : 
years  old,  and  I  am  ten— are  sitting  together 
on  the  bank  of  the  stream,  under  an  oak-tree 
that  leans  half-way  over  to  the  water.  I  am 
much  stronger  than  she,  and  taller  by  a  head. 
I  hold  in  my  hands  a  little  alder-rod,  with 
which  I  am  fishing  for  the  roach  and  minnows 
that  play  in  the  pool  below  us. 

She  is  watching  the  cork  tossing  on  the 
water,  or  playing  with  the  captured  fish  that 
lie  upon  the  bank.  She  has  auburn  ringlets 
that  fall  down  upon  her  shoulders;  and  her 
straw  hat  lies  back  upon  them,  held  only  by 
the  strip  of  ribbon  that  passes  under  her  chin. 
But  the  sun  does  not  shine  upon  her  head,  for 
the  oak-tree  above  us  is  full  of  leaves ;  and  only 
here  and  there  a  dimple  of  the  sunlight  plays 
upon  the  pool  where  I  am  fishing. 

Her  eye  is  hazel,  and  bright;  and  now  and 
then  she  turns  it  on  me  with  a  look  of  girlish 
curiosity,  as  I  lift  up  my  rod, — and  again  in  , 

149 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

;  playful  menace,   as   she   grasps   in  her   little 

•.  ringers  one  of  the  dead  fish,  and  threatens  to 

'!  throw  it  back  upon  the  stream.    Her  little  feet 

hang  over  the  edge  of  the  bank,  and  from 

time  to  time  she  reaches  down  to  dip  her  toe 

in  the  water,  and  laughs  a  girlish  laugh  of 

defiance,  as  I  scold  her  for  frightening  away 

the  fishes. 

"Bella,"  I  say,  "what  if  you  should  tumble 
in  the  river?" 
"But  I  won't." 
"Yes,  but  if  you  should?" 
"Why  then  you  would  pull  me  out." 
"But  if  I  would  n't  pull  you  out  ?" 
"But  I  know  you  would;  would  n't  you, 
Paul?" 

"What  makes  you  think  so,  Bella  ?" 
"Because  you  love  Bella." 
"How  do  you  know  I  love  Bella?" 
"Because  once  you  told  me  so;  and  because 
you  pick  flowers  for  me  that  I  cannot  reach; 
and  because  you  let  me  take  your  rod  when  you 
have  a  fish  upon  it." 

"But  that  's  no  reason,  Bella." 
"Then  what  is,  Paul  ?" 
"I  'm  sure  I  don't  know,  Bella." 
A  little  fish  has  been  nibbling  for  a  long  time 
at  the  bait;  the  cork  has  been  bobbing  up  and 

150 


THE  MORNING 

down;  and  now  he  is  fairly  hooked,  and  pulls 
away  toward  the  bank,  and  you  cannot  see  the 
cork. 

—"Here,  Bella,  quick!" — and  she  springs 
eagerly  to  clasp  her  little  hands  around  the  rod. 
But  the  fish  has  dragged  it  away  on  the  other 
side  of  me;  and  as  she  reaches  farther  and 
farther,  she  slips,  cries  "Oh  Paul !" — and  falls 
into  the  water. 

The  stream  they  told  us,  when  we  came,  was 
over  a  man's  head:  it  is  surely  over  little 
Isabel's.  I  fling  down  the  rod,  and  thrusting 
one  hand  into  the  roots  that  support  the  over- 
hanging bank,  I  grasp  at  her  hat  as  she  comes 
up;  but  the  ribbons  give  way,  and  I  see  the 
terribly  earnest  look  upon  her  face  as  she  goes 
down  again.  Oh,  my  mother!  thought  I,  if 
you  were  only  here ! 

But  she  rises  again;  this  time  I  thrust  my 
hand  into  her  dress,  and  struggling  hard  keep 
her  at  the  top,  until  I  can  place  my  foot  down 
upon  a  projecting  root;  and  so  bracing  myself, 
I  drag  her  to  the  bank,  and  having  climbed  up, 
take  hold  of  her  belt  firmly  with  both  hands, 
and  drag  her  out;  and  poor  Isabel,  choked, 
chilled,  and  wet,  is  lying  upon  the  grass. 

I  commence  crying  aloud.  The  workmen  in 
the  fields  hear  me,  and  come  down.  One  takes 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

Isabel  in  his  arms,  and  I  follow  on  foot  to  our 
uncle's  home  upon  the  hill. 

—"Oh,  my  children!"  save  my  mother;  and 
she  takes  Isabel  in  her  arms;  and  presently, 
with  dry  clothes,  and  blazing  wood-fire,  little 
Bella  smiles  again.  I  am  at  my  mother's  knee. 

"I  told  you  so,  Paul,"  says  Isabel.— "Aunty, 
does  n't  Paul  love  me?" 

"I  hope  so,  Bella,"  said  my  mother. 

"I  know  so,"  said  I;  and  kissed  her  cheek. 

And  how  did  I  know  it?  The  boy  does  not 
ask,  the  man  does.  Ah,  the  freshness,  the 
honesty,  the  vigor  of  a  boy's  heart!— how  the 
memory  of  it  refreshes  like  the  first  gush  of 
spring,  or  the  break  of  an  April  shower. 

But  boyhood  has  its  Pride,  as  well  as  its 
Loves. 

My  uncle  is  a  tall,  hard-faced  man.  I  fear 
him,  when  he  calls  me  "child";  I  love  him, 
when  he  calls  me  "Paul."  He  is  almost  always 
busy  with  his  books ;  and  when  I  steal  in  at  the 
library-door,  as  I  sometimes  do,  with  a  string 
of  fish,  or  a  heaping  basket  of  nuts,  to  show  to 
him,  he  looks  for  a  moment  curiously  at  them, 
sometimes  takes  them  in  his  fingers,  gives  them 
back  to  me,  and  turns  over  the  leaves  of  his 
book.  You  are  afraid  to  ask  him,  if  you  have 
not  worked  bravely;  yet  you  want  to  do  so. 

152 


THE  MORNING 

You  sidle  out  softly,  and  go  to  your  mother. 
She  scarce  looks  at  your  little  stores;  but  she 
draws  you  to  her  with  her  arm,  and  prints  a 
kiss  upon  your  forehead.  Now  your  tongue 
is  unloosed ;  that  kiss  and  that  action  have  done 
it ;  you  will  tell  what  capital  luck  you  have  had, 
and  you  hold  up  your  tempting  trophies; — 
"Are  they  not  great,  mother?"  But  she  is 
looking  in  your  face,  and  not  at  your  prize. 

"Take  them,  mother;"  and  you  lay  the  bas- 
ket upon  her  lap. 

"Thank  you,  Paul,  I  do  not  wish  them;  but 
you  must  give  some  to  Bella." 

And  away  you  go  to  find  laughing,  playful 
cousin  Isabel.  And  we  sit  down  together  on 
the  grass,  and  I  pour  out  my  stores  between 
us.  "You  shall  take,  Bella,  what  you  wish  in 
your  apron,  and  then,  when  study-hours  are 
over,  we  will  have  such  a  time  down  by  the  big 
rock  in  the  meadow." 

"But  I  do  not  know  if  papa  will  let  me," 
says  Isabel. 

"Bella,"  I  say,  "do  you  love  your  papa?" 

"Yes,"  says  Bella;  "why  not?" 

"Because  he  is  so  cold ;  he  does  not  kiss  you 
Bella,  so  often  as  my  mother  does;  and  be- 
sides when  he  forbids  your  going  away,  he 
does  not  say,  as  mother  does,  'My  little  girl 

153 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

will  be  tired,  she  had  better  not  go' ;  but  he 
says  only,  'Isabel  must  not  go.'  I  wonder 
what  makes  him  talk  so?" 

"Why,  Paul,  he  is  a  man,  and  does  n't — 
at  any  rate,  I  love  him,  Paul.  Besides,  my 
mother  is  sick,  you  know." 

"But  Isabel,  my  mother  will  be  your  mother 
too.  Come,  Bella,  we  will  go  ask  her  it  we 
may  go." 

And  there  I  am,  the  happiest  of  boys,  plead- 

^~  ing  with  the  kindest  of  mothers.     And  the 

young  heart  leans  into  that  mother's  heart;— 

none  of  the  void  now  that  will  overtake  it  like 

an  opening  Korah  gulf  in  the  years  that  are 

;  to  come.     It  is  joyous,  full,  and  running  over. 

"You  may  go,"  she  says,  "if  your  uncle  is 
willing." 

"But  mamma,  I  am  afraid  to  ask  him;  I 
do  not  believe  he  loves  me." 

"Don't  say  so,  Paul" ;  and  she  draws  you  to 
her  side,  as  if  she  would  supply  by  her  own  love 
the  lacking  love  of  a  universe. 

"Go  with  your  cousin  Isabel,  and  ask  him 
kindly ;  and  if  he  says  No,  make  no  reply." 

And  with  courage  we  go  hand-in-hand,  and 
steal  in  at  the  library-door.  There  he  sits — 
I  seem  to  see  him  now — in  the  old  wainscoted 
room  covered  over  with  books  and  pictures; 

154 


THE  MORNING 

and  he  wears  his  heavy-rimmed  spectacles,  and 
is  poring  over  some  big  volume  full  of  hard 
words  that  are  not  in  any  spelling-book.  We 
step  up  softly,  and  Isabel  lays  her  little  hand 
upon  his  arm;  and  he  turns  and  says,  "Well, 
my  little  daughter?" 

I  ask  if  we  may  go  down  to  the  big  rock  in 
the  meadow? 

He  looks  at  Isabel,  and  says  he  is  afraid, — 
"we  cannot  go." 

"But  why,  uncle?  It  is  only  a  little  way, 
and  we  will  be  very  careful." 

"I  am  afraid,  my  children.  Do  not  say  any 
more.  You  can  have  the  pony,  and  Tray,  and 
play  at  home." 

"But,  uncle"  — 

"You  need  say  no  more,  my  child." 

I  pinch  the  hand  of  little  Isabel,  and  look  in 
her  eye,  my  own  half-filling  with  tears.  I  feel 
that  my  forehead  is  flushed,  and  I  hide  it  be- 
hind Bella's  tresses,  whispering  to  her  at  the 
same  time,  "Let  us  go." 

"What,  sir,"  says  my  uncle,  mistaking  my 
meaning,  "do  you  persuade  her  to  disobey?" 

Now  I  am  angry,  and  say  blindly,  "No,  sir, 
I  did  n't !"  And  then  my  rising  pride  will  not 
let  me  explain. 

Bella  cries;  and  I  shrink  out,  and  am  not 

155 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

easy  until  I  have  run  to  bury  my  head  in  my 
mother's  bosom.  Alas !  pride  cannot  always 
find  such  covert.  There  will  be  times  when  it 
will  harass  you  strangely;  when  it  will  peril 
friendships — will  sever  old  standing  intimacy; 
and  then— no  resourse  but  to  feed  on  its  own 
bitterness.  Hateful  pride, — to  be  conquered 
as  a  man  would  conquer  an  enemy,  or  it  will 
make  whirlpools  in  the  current  of  your  affec- 
tions,— nay,  turn  the  whole  tide  of  the  heart 
into  rough  and  unaccustomed  channels. 

But  boyhood  has  its  Grief  too,  apart  from 
Pride. 

You  love  the  old  dog  Tray;  and  Bella  loves 
him  as  well  as  you.  He  is  a  noble  old  fellow, 
with  shaggy  hair  and  long  ears,  and  big  paws 
that  he  will  put  up  into  your  hand,  if  you  ask 
him.  And  he  never  gets  angry  when  you  play 
with  him,  and  tumble  him  over  in  the  long 
grass,  and  pull  his  silken  ears.  Sometimes, 
to  be  sure,  he  will  open  his  mouth  as  if  he 
would  bite,  but  when  he  gets  your  hand  fairly 
in  his  jaws,  he  will  scarce  leave  the  print  of 
his  teeth  upon  it.  He  will  swim  too,  bravely, 
and  bring  ashore  all  the  sticks  you  throw  upon 
the  water ;  and  when  you  fling  a  stone  to  tease 
him,  he  swims  round  and  round,  and  whines, 
and  looks  sorry  that  he  cannot  find  it. 

156 


THE  MORNING 

He  will  carry  a  heaping  basket  full  of  nuts, 
too,  in  his  mouth,  and  never  spill  one  of  them ; 
and  when  you  come  out  to  your  uncle's  home 
in  the  spring,  after  staying  a  whole  winter  in 
the  town,  he  knows  you — old  Tray  does !  And 
he  leaps  upon  you,  and  lays  his  paws  on  your 
shoulder,  and  licks  your  face,  and  is  almost 
as  glad  to  see  you  as  cousin  Bella  herself. 
And  when  you  put  Bella  on  his  back  for  a  ride, 
he  only  pretends  to  bite  her  little  feet;  but  he 
would  n't  do  it  for  the  world.  Aye,  Tray  is 
a  noble  old  dog. 

But  one  summer  the  farmers  say  that  some  of 
their  sheep  are  killed,  and  that  the  dogs  have 
worried  them;  and  one  of  them  comes  to  talk 
with  my  uncle  about  it. 

But  Tray  never  worried  sheep ;  you  know  he 
never  did;  and  so  does  nurse;  and  so  does 
Bella;  for  in  the  spring  she  had  a  pet  lamb, 
and  Tray  never  worried  little  Fidele. 

And  one  or  two  of  the  dogs  that  belong  to 
the  neighbors  are  shot;  though  nobody  knows 
who  shot  them ;  and  you  have  great  fears  about 
poor  Tray;  and  try  to  keep  him  at  home,  and 
fondle  him  more  than  ever.  But  Tray  will 
sometimes  wander  off;  and  finally,  one  after- 
noon he  comes  back  whining  piteously,  and 
with  his  shoulder  bloody. 

157 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

Little  Bella  cries  aloud ;  and  you  almost  cry, 
as  nurse  dresses  the  wound ;  and  poor  old  Tray 
howls  grievously.  You  pat  his  head,  and  Bella 
pats  him;  and  you  sit  down  together  by  him 
on  the  floor  of  the  porch,  and  bring  a  rug  for 
him  to  lie  upon,  and  try  and  tempt  him  with 
a  little  milk;  and  Bella  brings  a  piece  of  cake 
for  him, — but  he  will  eat  nothing.  You  sit 
up  till  very  late,  long  after  Bella  has  gone  to 
bed,  patting  his  head,  and  wishing  you  could 
do  something  for  poor  Tray ;  but  he  only  licks 
your  hand,  and  whines  more  piteously  than 
ever. 

In  the  morning  you  dress  early,  and  hurry 
down-stairs ;  but  Tray  is  not  lying  on  the  rug ; 
and  you  run  through  the  house  to  find  him, 
and  whistle  and  call — Tray !  Tray !  At  length 
you  see  him  lying  in  his  old  place  out  by  the 
cherry-tree,  and  you  run  to  him, — but  he  does 
not  start;  and  you  lean  down  to  pat  him, — 
but  he  is  cold,  and  the  dew  is  wet  upon  him. 
Poor  Tray  is  dead. 

You  take  his  head  upon  your  knees,  and  pat 
again  those  glossy  ears ;  but  you  cannot  bring 
him  to  life.  And  Bella  comes  and  mourns  with 
you.  You  can  hardly  bear  to  have  him  put 
in  the  ground;  but  uncle  says  he  must  be 
buried.  So  one  of  the  workmen  digs  a  grave 

158 


THE  MORNING 

under  the  cherry-tree  where  he  died, — a  deep 
grave;  and  they  round  it  over  with  earth>  and 
smooth  the  sods  upon  it; — even  now  I  can 
trace  Tray's  grave. 

You  and  Bella  together  put  up  a  little  slab 
for  a  tombstone;  and  she  hangs  flowers  upon 
it,  and  ties  them  there  with  a  bit  of  ribbon. 
You  can  scarce  play  all  that  day;  and  after- 
ward, many  weeks  later,  when  you  are  ram- 
bling over  the  fields,  or  lingering  by  the  brook, 
throwing  off  sticks  into  the  eddies,  you  think 
of  old  Tray's  shaggy  coat,  and  of  his  big  paw, 
and  of  his  honest  eye ;  and  the  memory  of  your 
boyish  youth  comes  upon  you,  and  you  say, 
with  a  sigh,  "Poor  Tray!"  And  Bella  too, 
in  her  sad,  sweet  tones,  says,  "Poor  old  Tray, 
he  is  dead!" 

SCHOOL-DAYS 

THE  morning  was  cloudy  and  threatened  rain ; 
besides,  it  was  autumn  weather,  and  the  winds 
were  getting  harsh,  and  rustling  among  the 
tree-tops  that  shaded  the  house,  most  dismally. 
I  did  not  dare  to  listen.  If  indeed  I  were  to 
stay  by  the  bright  fires  of  home,  and  gather 
the  nuts  as  they  fell,  and  pile  up  the  falling 
leaves  to  make  great  bonfires  with  Ben  and  the 
rest  of  the  boys,  I  should  have  liked  to  listen, 

J59 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

and  would  have  braved  the  dismal  morning 
with  the  cheerfullest  of  them  all.  For  it  would 
have  been  a  capital  time  to  light  a  fire  in  the 
little  oven  we  had  built  under  the  wall ;  it 
would  have  been  so  pleasant  to  warm  our 
fingers  at  it,  and  to  roast  the  great  russets  on 
the  flat  stones  that  made  the  top. 

But  this  was  not  in  store  for  me.  I  had 
bid  the  town-boys  good-bye  the  day  before; 
>  my  trunk  was  all  packed;  I  was  to  go  away — 
''>  to  school.  The  little  oven  would  go  to  ruin — 
I  knew  it  would.  I  was  to  leave  my  home. 
I  was  to  bid  my  mother  good-bye,  and  Lilly, 
and  Isabel,  and  all  the  rest;  and  was  to  go 
away  from  them  so  far  that  I  should  only  know 
what  they  were  all  doing — in  letters.  And 
then  to  have  the  clouds  come  over  on  that 
morning,  and  the  winds  sigh  so  dismally ;  it 
was  too  bad,  I  thought. 

It  comes  back  to  me,  as  I  lie  here  this  bright 
spring  morning,  as  if  it  were  only  yesterday. 
I  remember  that  the  pigeons  skulked  under 
the  eaves  of  the  carriage-house,  and  did  not  sit, 
as  they  used  to  do  in  summer,  upon  the  ridge; 
and  the  chickens  huddled  together  about  the 
stable-doors  as  if  they  were  afraid  of  the  cold 
autumn.  And  in  the  garden  the  white  holly- 
hocks stood  shivering,  and  bowed  to  the  wind, 

160 


THE  MORNING 

as  if  their  time  had  come.  The  yellow  musk- 
melons  showed  plain  among  the  frost-bitten 
vines,  and  looked  cold  and  uncomfortable. 

Then  they  were  all  so  kind  in-doors. 

The  cook  made  such  nice  things  for  my  break- 
fast, because  little  master  was  going;  Lilly 
•would  give  me  her  seat  by  the  fire,  and  would 
put  her  lump  of  sugar  in  my  cup;  and  my 
mother  looked  so  smiling  and  so  tenderly,  that 
I  thought  I  loved  her  more  than  I  ever  did  be- 
fore. Little  Ben  was  so  gay  too;  and  wanted 
me  to  take  his  jackknife,  if  I  wished  it,— 
though  he  knew  that  I  had  a  brand-new  one  in 
my  trunk.  The  old  nurse  slipped  a  little  purse 
into  my  hand,  tied  up  with  a  green  ribbon, — 
with  money  in  it, — and  told  me  not  to  show  it 
to  Ben  or  Lilly. 

And  cousin  Isabel,  who  was  there  on  a  visit, 
would  come  to  stand  by  my  chair  when  my 
mother  was  talking  to  me,  and  put  her  hand  in 
mine,  and  look  up  into  my  face ;  but  she  did  not 
say  a  word.  I  thought  it  was  very  odd;  and 
yet  it  did  not  seem  odd  to  me  that  I  could  say 
nothing  to  her.  I  dare  say  we  felt  alike. 

At  length  Ben  came  running  in,  and  said 
the  coach  had  come;  and  there,  sure  enough, 
out  of  the  window  we  saw  it, — a  bright  yellow 
coach,  with  four  white  horses,  and  bandboxes 

161 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

all  over  the  top,  with  a  great  pile  of  trunks 
behind.  Ben  said  it  was  a  grand  coach,  and 
that  he  should  like  a  ride  in  it;  and  the  old 
nurse  came  to  the  door,  and  said  I  should  have 
a  capital  time;  but  somehow  I  doubted  if  the 
nurse  was  talking  honestly.  I  believe  she  gave 
me  an  honest  kiss  though — and  such  a  hug ! 

But  it  was  nothing  to  my  mother's.  Tom 
told  me  to  be  a  man,  and  study  like  a  Trojan; 
but  I  was  not  thinking  about  study  then. 
There  was  a  tall  boy  in  the  coach,  and  I  was 
ashamed  to  have  him  see  me  cry ;  so  I  did  n't 
;  at  first.  But  I  remember,  as  I  looked  back  and 
saw  little  Isabel  run  out  into  the  middle  of  the 
street  to  see  the  coach  go  off,  and  the  curls 
floating  behind  her  as  the  wind  freshened,  I 
felt  my  heart  leaping  into  my  throat,  and  the 
water  coming  into  my  eyes,— and  how  just 
then  I  caught  sight  of  the  tall  boy  glancing  at 
me, — and  how  I  tried  to  turn  it  off  by  looking 
to  see  if  I  could  button  up  my  great-coat  a 
great  deal  lower  down  than  the  button-holes 
went. 

But  it  was  of  no  use.  I  put  my  head  out  of 
the  coach-window,  and  looked  back  as  the  little 
figure  of  Isabel  faded,  and  then  the  house,  and 
the  trees ;  and  the  tears  did  come ;  and  I  smug- 
gled my  handkerchief  outside  without  turning, 

162 


THE  MORNING 

so  that  I  could  wipe  my  eyes  before  the  tall 
boy    should    see    me.     They    say    that    these  ; 
shadows  of  morning  fade  as  the  sun  brightens 
into  noonday;  but  they  are  very  dark  shadows 
for  all  that. 

Let  the  father  or  the  mother  think  long  be- 
fore they  send  away  their  boy, — before  they 
break  the  home  ties  that  make  a  web  of  infinite 
fineness  and  soft  silken  meshes  around  his 
heart,  and  toss  him  aloof  into  the  boy-world, 
where  he  must  struggle  up,  amid  bickerings 
and  quarrels,  into  his  age  of  youth.  There  , 
are  boys  indeed  with  little  fineness  in  the  tex- 
ture of  their  hearts,  and  with  little  delicacy  of 
soul,  to  whom  the  school  in  a  distant  village 
is  but  a  vacation  from  home,  and  with  whom 
a  return  revives  all  those  grosser  affections 
which  alone  existed  before;  just  as  there  are 
plants  which  will  bear  all  exposure  without 
the  wilting  of  a  leaf,  and  will  return  to  the  hot- 
house life  as  strong  and  as  hopeful  as  ever. 
But  there  are  others,  to  whom  the  severance 
from  the  prattle  of  sisters,  the  indulgent  fond- 
ness of  a  mother,  and  the  unseen  influences  of 
the  home  altar,  gives  a  shock  that  lasts  for- 
ever ;  it  is  wrenching  with  cruel  hand  what  will 
bear  but  little  roughness;  and  the  sobs  with 
which  the  adieus  are  said  are  sobs  that  may 

163 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

come  back  in  the  after-years  strong  and  steady 
and  terrible. 

God  have  mercy  on  the  boy  who  learns  to 
sob  early!  Condemn  it  as  sentiment,  if  you 
will;  talk  as  you  will  of  the  fearlessness  and 
strength  of  the  boy's  heart, — yet  there  belong 
to  many  tenderly  strung  chords  of  affection 
which  give  forth  low  and  gentle  music  that 
consoles  and  ripens  the  ear  for  all  the 
harmonies  of  life.  These  chords  a  little  rude 
and  unnatural  tension  will  break,  and  break 
forever.  Watch  your  boy  then,  if  so  be  he 
will  bear  the  strain ;  try  his  nature  if  it  be  rude 
or  delicate;  and  if  delicate,  in  God's  name,  do 
not,  as  you  value  your  peace  and  his,  breed  a 
harsh  youth-spirit  in  him  that  shall  take  pride 
in  subjugating  and  forgetting  the  delicacy  and 
richness  of  his  finer  affections. 

1  see  now,  looking  into  the  past,  the 

troops  of  boys  who  were  scattered  in  the  great 
play-ground  as  the  coach  drove  up  at  night. 
The  school  was  in  a  tall,  stately  building,  with 
a  high  cupola  on  the  top,  where  I  thought  I 
would  like  to  go.  The  schoolmaster,  they  told 
me  at  home,  was  kind;  he  said  he  hoped  I 
would  be  a  good  boy,  and  patted  me  on  the 
head ;  but  he  did  not  pat  me  as  my  mother  used 
to  do.  Then  there  was  a  woman  whom  they 

164 


THE  MORNING 

called  the  Matron,  who  had  a  great  many 
ribbons  in  her  cap,  and  who  shook  my  hand, — 
but  so  stiffly,  that  I  did  n't  dare  to  look  up  in 
her  face. 

One  boy  took  me  down  to  see  the  school- 
room, which  was  in  the  basement,  and  the  walls 
were  all  mouldy,  I  remember;  and  when  we 
passed  a  certain  door,  he  said — "there  was  the 
dungeon;" — how  I  felt!  I  hated  that  boy; 
but  I  believe  he  is  dead  now.  Then  the  matron 
took  me  up  to  my  room,— a  little  corner-room, 
with  two  beds  and  two  windows,  and  a  red 
table,  and  closet;  and  my  chum  was  about  my 
size,  and  wore  a  queer  roundabout  jacket  with 
big  bell  buttons;  and  he  called  the  school- 
master "Old  Crikey,"  and  kept  me  awake  half 
the  night,  telling  me  how  he  whipped  the 
scholars,  and  how  they  played  tricks  upon  him. 
I  thought  my  chum  was  a  very  uncommon  boy. 

For  a  day  or  two  the  lessons  were  easy,  and 
it  was  sport  to  play  with  so  many  "fellows." 
But  soon  I  began  to  feel  lonely  at  night,  after 
I  had  gone  to  bed.  I  used  to  wish  I  could  have 
my  mother  come  and  kiss  me ;  after  school,  too, 
I  wished  I  could  step  in  and  tell  Isabel  how 
bravely  I  had  learned  my  lessons.  When  I 
told  my  chum  this,  he  laughed  at  me,  and  said 
that  was  no  place  for  "homesick,  white-livered 

165 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

chaps."  I  wondered  if  my  chum  had  any 
mother. 

We  had  spending-money  once  a  week,  with 
which  we  used  to  go  down  to  the  village  store, 
and  club  our  funds  together  to  make  great 
pitchers  of  lemonade.  Some  boys  would  have 
money  besides,  though  it  was  against  the  rules ; 
and  one,  I  recollect,  showed  us  a  five-dollar 
bill  in  his  wallet,  and  we  all  thought  he  must 
be  very  rich. 

We  marched  in  procession  to  the  village 
church  on  Sundays.  There  were  two  long 
benches  in  the  galleries,  reaching  down  the 
sides  of  the  meeting-house,  and  on  these  we 
sat.  At  the  first  I  was  among  the  smallest 
boys,  and  took  a  place  close  to  the  wall  against 
the  pulpit;  but  afterward,  as  I  grew  bigger,  I 
was  promoted  to  the  lower  end  of  the  first 
bench.  This  I  never  liked,  because  it  was  close 
by  one  of  the  teachers,  and  because  it  brought 
me  next  to  some  countrywomen  who  wore 
stiff  bonnets,  and  ate  fennel,  and  sung  with 
the  choir.  But  there  was  a  little  black-eyed 
girl,  who  sat  over  behind  the  choir,  that  I 
thought  handsome.  I  used  to  look  at  her  very 
often,  but  was  careful  she  should  never  catch 
my  eye. 

There  was  another  down  below,  in  a  corner- 
pew,  who  was  pretty,  and  who  wore  a  hat  in 

166 


THE  MORNING 

the  winter  trimmed  with  fur.  Half  the  boys 
in  the  school  said  they  would  marry  her  some 
day  or  other.  One's  name  was  Jane,  and  that 
of  the  other  Sophia;  which  we  thought  pretty 
names,  and  cut  them  on  the  ice  in  skating-time. 
But  I  did  n't  think  either  of  them  so  pretty  as 
Isabel. 

Once  a  teacher  whipped  me.  I  bore  it 
bravely  in  the  school;  but  afterward,  at  night, 
when  my  chum  was  asleep,  I  sighed  bitterly 
as  I  thought  of  Isabel,  and  Ben,  and  my 
mother,  and  how  much  they  loved  me;  and 
laying  my  face  in  my  hands,  I  sobbed  myself 
to  sleep.  In  the  morning  I  was  calm  enough : 
it  was  another  of  the  heart-ties  broken,  though 
I  did  not  know  it  then.  It  lessened  the  old 
attachment  to  home,  because  that  home  could 
neither  protect  me  nor  soothe  me  with  its  sym- 
pathies. Memory,  indeed,  freshened  and  grew  ; 
strong,  but  strong  in  bitterness  and  in  regrets.  ' 
The  boy  whose  love  you  cannot  feed  by  daily 
nourishment  will  find  pride,  self-indulgence, 
and  an  iron  purpose  coming  in  to  furnish  other 
supply  for  the  soul  that  is  in  him.  If  he  can- 
not shoot  his  branches  into  the  sunshine,  he 
will  become  acclimated  to  the  shadow,  and 
indifferent  to  such  stray  gleams  of  sunshine 
as  his  fortune  may  vouchsafe. 

Hostilities    would   sometimes    threaten   be- 

167 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

tween  the  school  and  the  village  boys ;  but  they 
usually  passed  off  with  such  loud  and  harmless 
explosions  as  belong  to  the  wars  of  our  small 
politicians.  The  village  champions  were  a 
hatter's  apprentice  and  a  thick-set  fellow  who 
worked  in  a  tannery.  We  prided  ourselves 
especially  on  one  stout  boy,  who  wore  a  sailor's 
monkey-jacket.  I  cannot  but  think  how  jaunty 
that  stout  boy  looked  in  that  jacket,  and  what 
an  Ajax  cast  there  was  to  his  countenance! 
It  certainly  did  occur  to  me  to  compare  him 
with  William  Wallace,  ( Miss  Porter's  William 
Wallace,)  and  I  thought  how  I  would  have 
liked  to  have  seen  a  tussle  between  them.  Of 
course  we,  who  were  small  boys,  limited  our- 
selves to  indignant  remarks,  and  thought  "we 
should  like  to  see  them  do  it" ;  and  prepared 
clubs  from  the  wood-shed,  after  a  model  sug- 
gested by  a  New  York  boy  who  had  seen  the 
clubs  of  the  policemen. 

There  was  one  scholar — poor  Leslie — who 
had  friends  in  some  foreign  country,  and  who 
occasionally  received  letters  bearing  a  foreign 
postmark.  What  an  extraordinary  boy  that 
was ;  what  astonishing  letters ;  what  extraordi- 
nary parents!  I  wondered  if  I  should  ever 
receive  a  letter  from  "foreign  parts."  I  won- 
dered if  I  should  ever  write  one ; — but  this  was 

168 


THE  MORNING 

too  much,  too  absurd.  As  if  I,  Paul,  wear- 
ing a  blue  jacket  with  gilt  buttons,  and  num- 
ber four  boots,  should  ever  visit  those  countries 
spoken  of  in  the  geographies  and  by  learned 
travellers!  No,  no;  this  was  too  extravagant; 
but  I  knew  what  I  would  do  if  I  lived  to  come 
of  age, — and  I  vowed  that  I  would— I  would 
go  to  New  York. 

Number  Seven  was  the  hospital,  and  for- 
bidden ground;  we  had  all  of  us  a  sort  of 
horror  of  Number  Seven.  A  boy  died  there 
once,  and  ah,  how  he  moaned ;  and  what  a  time 
there  was  when  the  father  came ! 

A  scholar  by  the  name  of  Tom  Belton,  who 
wore  linsey  gray,  made  a  dam  across  a  little 
brook  by  the  school,  and  whittled  out  a  saw- 
mill that  actually  sawed :  he  had  genius.  I  ' 
expected  to  see  him  before  now  at  the  head  of 
American  mechanics,  but  I  learn  with  pain 
that  he  is  keeping  a  grocery-store. 

At  the  close  of  all  the  terms  we  had  exhi- 
bitions, to  which  all  the  townspeople  came, 
and  among  them  the  black-eyed  Jane,  and  the 
pretty  Sophia  with  fur  around  her  hat.  My 
great  triumph  was  when  I  had  the  part  of  one 
of  Pizarro's  chieftains,  the  evening  before  I 
left  the  school.  How  I  did  look!  I  had  a 
moustache  put  on  with  burnt  cork,  and  whisk- 

169 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

ers  very  bushy  indeed;  and  I  had  the  militia 
coat  of  an  ensign  in  the  town  company,  with  the 
skirts  pinned  up;  and  a  short  sword,  very  dull 
and  crooked,  which  belonged  to  an  old  gen- 
tleman who  was  said  to  have  got  it  from  some 
privateer's-man,  who  was  said  to  have  taken  it 
from  some  great  British  admiral  in  the  old 
wars;  and  the  way  I  carried  that  sword  upon 
the  platform,  and  the  way  I  jerked  it  out  when 
it  came  my  turn  to  say,  "Battle !  battle ! — then 
death  to  the  armed,  and  chains  for  the  defence- 
less !" — was  tremendous. 

The  morning  after,  in  our  dramatic  hats, — 
black  felt,  with  turkey  feathers, — we  took  our 
place  upon  the  top  of  the  coach  to  leave  the 
school.  The  head  master,  in  green  spectacles, 
came  out  to  shake  hands  with  us, — a  very 
awful  shaking  of  hands.  Poor  gentleman !  he 
is  in  his  grave  now. 

We  gave  three  loud  hurrahs  "for  the  old 
school,"  as  the  coach  started ;  and  upon  the  top 
of  the  hill  that  overlooks  the  village  we  gave 
another  round,  and  still  another  for  the  crabbed 
old  fellow  whose  apples  we  had  so  often  stolen. 
I  wonder  if  old  Bulkeley  is  living  yet? 

As  we  got  on  under  the  pine-trees,  I  re- 
called the  image  of  the  black-eyed  Jane,  and 
of  the  other  little  girl  in  the  corner-pew,  and 

170 


THE  MORNING 

thought  how  I  would  come  back  after  the  col- 
lege-days were  over, — a  man,  with  a  beaver 
hat  and  a  cane,  and  with  a  splendid  barouche ; 
and  how  I  would  take  the  best  chamber  at  the 
inn,  and  astonish  the  old  schoolmaster  by 
giving  him  a  familiar  tap  on  the  shoulder ;  and 
how  I  would  be  the  admiration  and  the  wonder 
of  the  pretty  girl  in  the  fur-trimmed  hat.  Alas ! 
how  our  thoughts  outrun  our  deeds. 

For  long — long  years  I  saw  no  more  of  my 
old  school;  and  when  at  length  the  new  view 
came,  great  changes,  crashing  like  tornadoes, 
had  swept  over  my  path.  I  thought  no  more 
of  startling  the  villagers  or  astonishing  the 
black-eyed  girl.  No,  no :  I  was  content  to  slip  ( 
quietly  through  the  little  town,  with  only  a 
tear  or  two,  as  I  recalled  the  dead  ones  and 
mused  upon  the  emptiness  of  life. 

THE  SEA 

As  I  look  back,  boyhood  with  its  griefs  and 
cares  vanishes  into  the  proud  stateliness  of 
youth.  The  ambition  and  the  rivalries  of  the 
college-life,  its  first  boastful  importance  as 
knowledge  begins  to  dawn  on  the  wakened 
mind,  and  the  ripe  and  enviable  complacency 
of  its  senior  dignity, — all  scud  over  my  mem- 

171 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

ory  like  this  morning  breeze  along  the  mead- 
ows, and  like  that,  too,  bear  upon  their  wing  a 
chillness  as  of  distant  ice-banks. 

Ben  has  grown  almost  to  manhood;  Lilly 
is  living  in  a  distant  home;  and  Isabel  is  just 
blooming  into  that  sweet  age  where  womanly 
dignity  waits  her  beauty,— an  age  that  sorely 
puzzles  one  who  has  grown  up  beside  her,  mak- 
ing him  slow  of  tongue,  but  very  quick  of  heart. 

As  for  the  rest — let  us  pass  on. 

The  sea  is  around  me.  The  last  headlands 
have  gone  down  under  the  horizon,  like  the 
city  steeples,  as  you  lose  yourself  in  the  calm 
of  the  country,  or  like  the  great  thoughts  of 
genius,  as  you  slip  from  the  pages  of  poets 
into  your  own  quiet  Reverie. 

The  waters  skirt  me  right  and  left;  there  is 
nothing  but  water  before,  and  only  water  be- 
hind. Above  me  are  sailing  clouds,  or  the 
blue  vault,  which  we  call,  with  childish  license, 
heaven.  The  sails  white  and  ft;',1,  like  helping 
friends,  are  pushing  me  on ;  and  night  and  day 
are  distent  with  the  winds  which  come  and  go 
— none  know  whence,  and  none  know  whither. 
A  land-bird  flutters  aloft,  weary  with  long  fly- 
ing, and  lost  in  a  world  where  are  no  forests 
but  the  careening  masts,  and  no  foliage  but 
the  drifts  of  spray.  It  cleaves  a  while  to  the 

172 


THE  MORNING 

smooth  spars,  till  urged  by  some  homeward 
yearning,  it  bears  off  in  the  face  of  the  wind, 
and  sinks  and  rises  over  the  angry  waters, 
until  its  strength  is  gone,  and  the  blue  waves 
gather  the  poor  flutterer  to  their  cold  and 
grassy  bosom. 

All  the  morning  I  see  nothing  beyond  me 
but  the  waters,  or  a  tossing  company  of  dol- 
phins; all  the  noon,  unless  some  white  sail, 
like  a  ghost,  stalks  the  horizon,  there  is  still 
nothing  but  the  rolling  seas;  all  the  evening, 
after  the  sun  has  grown  big  and  sunk  under  the 
water-line,  and  the  moon  risen  white  and  cold 
to  glimmer  across  the  tops  of  the  surging 
ocean,  there  is  nothing  but  the  sea  and  the  sky 
to  lead  off  thought,  or  to  crush  it  with  their 
greatness. 

Hour  after  hour  as  I  sit  in  the  moonlight 
upon  the  taffrail,  the  great  waves  gather  far 
back  and  break, — and  gather  nearer,  and  break 
louder, — and  gather  again,  and  roll  down  swift 
and  terrible  under  the  creaking  ship,  and  heave 
it  up  lightly  upon  their  swelling  surge,  and 
drop  it  gently  to  their  seething  and  yeasty 
cradle,  like  an  infant  in  the  swaying  arms  of 
a  mother,  or  like  a  shadowy  memory  upon  the 
billows  of  manly  thought. 

Conscience   wakes   in   the   silent   night   of 

173 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

ocean;  life  lies  open  like  a  book,  and  spreads 
out  as  level  as  the  sea.  Regrets  and  broken 
resolutions  chase  over  the  soul  like  swift- 
winged  night-birds;  and  all  the  unsteady 
heights  and  the  wastes  of  action  lift  up  dis- 
tinct and  clear  from  the  uneasy  but  limpid 
depths  of  memory. 

Yet  within  this  floating  world  I  am  upon, 
sympathies  are  narrowed  down;  they  cannot 
range,  as  upon  the  land,  over  a  thousand  ob- 
jects. You  are  strangely  attracted  toward 
some  frail  girl,  whose  pallor  has  now  given 
place  to  the  rich  bloom  of  the  sea-life.  You 
listen  eagerly  to  the  chance-snatches  of  a  song 
from  below  in  the  long  morning  watch.  You 
love  to  see  her  small  feet  tottering  on  the  un- 
steady deck;  and  you  love  greatly  to  aid  her 
steps,  and  feel  her  weight  upon  your  arm,  as 
;  the  ship  lurches  to  a  heavy  sea. 

Hopes  and  fears  knit  together  pleasantly 
upon  the  ocean.  Each  day  seems  to  revive 
them;  your  morning  salutation  is  like  a  wel- 
come after  absence  upon  the  shore,  and  each 
"good-night"  has  the  depth  and  fulness  of  a 
land  "farewell."  And  beauty  grows  upon  the 
ocean;  you  cannot  certainly  say  that  the  face 
of  the  fair  girl-voyager  is  prettier  than  that  of 
Isabel;  oh,  no;  but  you  are  certain  that  you 

174 


THE  MORNING 

cast  innocent  and  honest  glances  upon  her,  as 
you  steady  her  walk  upon  the  deck,  far  oftener 
than  at  first;  and  ocean  life  and  sympathy 
makes  her  kind ;  she  does  not  resent  your  rude- 
ness one  half  so  stoutly  as  she  might  upon  the 
shore. 

She  will  even  linger  of  an  evening — plead- 
ing first  with  the  mother,  and  standing  beside 
you, — her  white  hand  not  very  far  from  yours 
upon  the  rail, — look  down  where  the  black  ship 
flings  off  with  each  plunge  whole  garlands  of 
emeralds;  or  she  will  look  up  (thinking  per- 
haps you  are  looking  the  same  way)  into  the 
skies  in  search  of  some  stars — which  were  her 
neighbors  at  home.  And  bits  of  old  tales  will 
come  up  as  if  they  rode  upon  the  ocean  quie- 
tude; and  fragments  of  half- forgotten  poems, 
tremulously  uttered,  either  by  reason  of  the 
rolling  of  the  ship,  or  some  accidental  touch 
of  that  white  hand. 

But  ocean  has  its  storm,  when  fear  will 
make  strange  and  holy  companionships;  and 
even  here  my  memory  shifts  swiftly  and  sud- 
denly. 

It  is  a  dreadful  night.  The  passengers 

are  clustered,  trembling,  below.  Every  plank 
shakes;  and  the  oak  ribs  groan  as  if  they  suf- 
fered with  their  toil.  The  hands  are  all  aloft ; 

175 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

the  captain  is  forward  shouting  to  the  mate 
in  the  cross-trees,  and  I  am  clinging  to  one  of 
the  stanchions  by  the  binnacle.  The  ship  is 
pitching  madly,  and  the  waves  are  toppling  up 
sometimes  as  high  as  the  yard-arm,  and  then 
dipping  away  with  a  whirl  under  our  keel,  that 
makes  every  timber  in  the  vessel  quiver.  The 
thunder  is  roaring  like  a  thousand  cannons; 
and  at  the  moment  the  sky  is  cleft  with  a 
stream  of  fire  that  glares  over  the  tops  of  the 
waves,  and  glistens  on  the  wet  decks  and  the 
spars, — lighting  up  all  so  plain,  that  I  can  see 
the  men's  faces  in  the  main-top,  and  catch 
glimpses  of  the  reefers  on  the  yard-arm,  cling- 
ing like  death; — then  all  is  horrible  darkness. 

The  spray  spits  angrily  against  the  canvas ; 
the  waves  crash  against  the  weather-bow  like 
mountains;  the  wind  howls  through  the  rig- 
ging, or,  as  a  gasket  gives  way,  the  sail, 
bellying  to  leeward,  splits  like  a  crack  of  a 
musket.  I  hear  the  captain  in  the  lulls  scream- 
ing out  orders;  and  the  mate  in  the  rigging 
screaming  them  over,  until  the  lightning 
comes,  and  the  thunder,  deadening  their  voices 
as  if  they  were  chirping  sparrows. 

In  one  of  the  flashes  I  see  a  hand  upon  the 
yard-arm  lose  his  foothold  as  the  ship  gives  a 
plunge ;  but  his  arms  are  clenched  around  the 

176 


THE  MORNING 

spar.  Before  I  can  see  any  more,  the  black- 
ness comes,  and  the  thunder,  with  a  crash  that 
half  deafens  me.  I  think  I  hear  a  low  cry, 
as  the  mutterings  die  away  in  the  distance; 
and  at  the  next  flash  of  lightning,  which  comes 
in  an  instant,  I  see  upon  the  top  of  one  of  the 
waves  alongside  the  poor  reefer  who  has  fallen. 
The  lightning  glares  upon  his  face. 

But  he  has  caught  at  a  loose  bit  of  running 
rigging  as  he  fell ;  and  I  see  it  slipping  off  the 
coil  upon  the  deck.  I  shout  madly,  "Man 
overboard!"  and  catch  the  rope,  when  I  can 
see  nothing  again.  The  sea  is  too  high,  and 
the  man  too  heavy  for  me.  I  shout,  and  shout, 
and  shout,  and  feel  the  perspiration  starting 
in  great  beads  from  my  forehead  as  the  line 
slips  through  my  fingers. 

Presently  the  captain  feels  his  way  aft  and 
takes  hold  with  me;  and  the  cook  comes  as  the 
coil  is  nearly  spent,  and  we  pull  together  upon 
him.  It  is  desperate  work  for  the  sailor;  for 
the  ship  is  drifting  at  a  prodigious  rate;  but 
he  clings  like  a  dying  man. 

By-and-by  at  a  flash  we  see  him  on  a  crest 
two  oars'  lengths  away  from  the  vessel. 

"Hold  on,  my  man !"  shouts  the  captain. 

"For  God's  sake,  be  quick!"  says  the  poor 
fellow,  and  he  goes  down  in  the  trough  of  the 

177 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

sea.  We  pull  the  harder,  and  the  captain  keeps 
calling  to  him  to  keep  up  courage  and  hold 
strong.  But  in  the  hush  we  can  hear  him  say, 
— "I  can't  hold  out  much  longer;  I'm  most 
gone !" 

Presently  we  have  brought  the  man  where 
we  can  lay  hold  of  him,  and  are  only  waiting 
for  a  good  lift  of  the  sea  to  bring  him  up,  when 
the  poor  fellow  groans  out, — "It  's  no  use — I 
can't — good-bye !"  And  a  wave  tosses  the  end 
of  the  rope  clean  upon  the  bulwarks. 

At  the  next  flash  I  see  him  going  down  un- 
der the  water. 

I  grope  my  way  below,  sick  and  faint  at 
heart;  and  wedging  myself  into  my  narrow 
berth,  I  try  to  sleep.  But  the  thunder  and  the 
tossing  of  the  ship,  and  the  face  of  the  drown- 
ing man  as  he  said  good-bye,  peering  at  me 
from  every  corner,  will  not  let  me  sleep. 

Afterward  come  quiet  seas,  over  which  we 
boom  along,  leaving  in  our  track  at  night  a 
broad  path  of  phosphorescent  splendor.  The 
sailors  bustle  around  the  decks  as  if  they  had 
lost  no  comrade;  and  the  voyagers,  losing 
the  palor  of  fear,  look  out  earnestly  for  the 
land. 

At  length  my  eyes  rest  upon  the  coveted 
fields  of  Britain ;  and  in  a  day  more  the  bright 

178 


THE  MORNING 

face,  looking  out  beside  me,  sparkles  at  sight 
of  the  sweet  cottages  which  lie  along  the- green 
Essex  shores.  Broad-sailed  yachts,  looking 
strangely  yet  beautiful,  glide  upon  the  waters 
of  the  Thames  like  swans ;  black,  square-rigged 
colliers  from  the  Tyne  lie  grouped  in  sooty  co- 
horts; and  heavy,  three-decked  Indiamen — 
of  which  I  had  read  in  story-books — drift 
slowly  down  with  the  tide.  Dingy  steamers 
with  white  pipes  and  with  red  pipes,  whiz  past 
us  to  the  sea;  and  now  my  eye  rests  on  the 
great  palace  of  Greenwich;  I  see  the  wooden- 
legged  pensioners  smoking  under  the  palace- 
walls,  and  above  them  upon  the  hill — as 
Heaven  is  true — that  old  fabulous  Greenwich, 
the  great  centre  of  school-boy  Longitude.  | 

Presently,  from  under  a  cloud  of  murky 
smoke  heaves  up  the  vast  dome  of  St.  Paul's, 
and  the  tall  Column  of  the  Fire,  and  the  white 
turrets  of  London  Tower.  Our  ship  glides 
through  the  massive  dock-gates,  and  is  moored 
amid  the  forest  of  masts  which  bears  golden 
fruit  for  Britons. 

That  night  I  sleep  far  away  from  "the  old 
school,"  and  far  away  from  the  valley  of  Hill- 
farm.  Long  and  late  I  toss  upon  my  bed, 
with  sweet  visions  in  my  mind  of  London 
Bridge,  and  Temple  Bar,  and  Jane  Shore,  and 

179 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

Falstaff,  and  Prince  Hal,  and  King  Jamie. 
And  when  at  length  I  fall  asleep,  my  dreams 
are  very  pleasant,  but  they  carry  me  across  the 
ocean,  away  from  the  ship,  away  from  London, 
away  even  from  the  fair  voyager — to  the  old 
oaks,  and  to  the  brooks,  and — to  thy  side, 
sweet  Isabel! 


THE  FATHERLAND 

THERE  is  a  great  contrast  between  the  easy 
deshabille  of  the  ocean  life,  and  the  prim  attire 
and  conventional  spirit  of  the  land.  In  the 
first  there  are  but  few  to  please,  and  these  few 
are  known,  and  they  know  us ;  upon  the  shore 
there  is  a  world  to  humor,  and  a  world  of 
strangers.  In  a  brilliant  drawing-room  look- 
ing out  upon  the  site  of  old  Charing-Cross, 
and  upon  the  one-armed  Nelson  standing  aloft 
at  his  coil  of  rope,  I  take  leave  of  the  fair 
voyager  of  the  sea.  Her  white  neglige  has 
given  place  to  silks;  and  the  simple,  careless 
coiffe  of  the  ocean  is  replaced  by  the  rich  dress- 
ing of  a  modiste.  Yet  her  face  has  the  same 
bloom  upon  it;  and  her  eye  sparkles,  as  it 
seems  to  me,  with  a  higher  pride ;  and  her  little 
hand  has,  I  think,  a  tremulous  quiver  in  it  (I 

180 


THE  MORNING 

am  sure  my  own  has)  as  I  bid  her  adieu,  and 
take  up  the  trail  of  my  wanderings  into  the 
heart  of  England. 

Abuse  her  as  we  will, — pity  her  starving    * 
peasantry  as  we  may, — smile  at  her  court  pag- 
eantry as  much  as  we  like, — old  England  is    ' 
dear  old  England  still.    Her  cottage-homes,  her  - 
green  fields,  her  castles,  her  blazing  firesides, 
her  church-spires  are  as  old  as  song;  and  by 
j    song  and  story  we  inherit  them  in  our  hearts. 
This  joyous  boast  was,  I  remember,  upon  my 
lip  as  I  first  trod  upon  the  rich  meadow  of 
Runnymede,  and  recalled  that  Great  Charter 
wrested  from  the  king,  which  made  the  first 
stepping-stone    toward    the    bounties    of    our 
western  freedom. 

It  is  a  strange  feeling  that  comes  over  the 
western  Saxon  as  he  strolls  first  along  the  I 
green  by-lanes  of  England,  and  scents  the  haw- 
thorn in  its  April  bloom,  and  lingers  at  some 
quaint  stile  to  watch  the  rooks  wheeling  and 
cawing  around  some  lofty  elm-tops,  and  traces 
the  carved  gables  of  some  old  country  man- 
sion that  lies  in  their  shadow,  and  hums  some 
fragment  of  charming  English  poesy  that 
seems  made  for  the  scene.  This  is  not  sight- 
seeing or  travel ;  it  is  dreaming  sweet  dreams 
that  are  fed  with  the  old  life  of  Books. 

181 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

I  wander  on,  fearing  to  break  the  dream  by 
a  swift  step;  and  winding  and  rising  between 
the  blooming  hedgerows,  I  come  presently  to 
the  sight  of  some  sweet  valley  below  me, 
where  a  thatched  hamlet  lies  sleeping  in  the 
April  sun  as  quietly  as  the  dead  lie  in  history ; 
no  sound  reaches  me  save  the  occasional  clink 
of  the  smith's  hammer,  or  the  hedgeman's  bill- 
hook, or  the  ploughman's  "ho-tup!"  from  the 
hills.  At  evening,  listening  to  the  nightin- 
gale, I  stroll  wearily  into  some  close-nestled 
village  that  I  had  seen  long  ago  from  a  rolling 
height.  It  is  far  away  from  the  great  lines 
of  travel;  and  the  children  stop  their  play  to 
have  a  look  at  me,  and  the  rosy- faced  girls 
peep  from  behind  half-opened  doors. 

Standing  apart,  and  with  a  bench  on  either 
side  of  the  entrance,  is  the  inn  of  the  Eagle 
and  the  Falcon, — which  guardian  birds  some 
native  Dick  Tinto  has  pictured  upon  the  swing- 
ing sign-board  at  the  corner.  The  hostess  is 
half  ready  to  embrace  me,  and  treats  me  like 
a  prince  in  disguise.  She  shows  me  through 
the  tap-room  into  a  little  parlor  with  white 
curtains,  and  with  neatly  framed  prints  of  the 
old  patriarchs.  Here,  alone,  beside  a  brisk 
fire  kindled  with  furze,  I  watch  the  white  flame 
leaping  playfully  through  the  black  lumps  of 

182 


THE  MORNING 

coal,  and  enjoy  the  best  fare  of  the  Eagle  and 
the  Falcon.  If  too  late  or  too  early  for  her 
garden-stock,  the  hostess  bethinks  herself  of 
some  small  pot  of  jelly  in  an  out-of-the-way 
cupboard  of  the  house,  and  setting  it  tempt- 
ingly in  her  prettiest  dish,  she  coyly  slips  it 
upon  the  white  cloth,  with  a  modest  regret  that 
it  is  no  better,  and  a  little  evident  satisfaction 
that  it  is  so  good. 

I  muse  for  an  hour  before  the  glowing  fire, 
as  quiet  as  the  cat  that  has  come  in  to  bear  me 
company ;  and  at  bedtime  I  find  sheets  as  fresh 
as  the  air  of  the  mountains. 

At  another  time,  and  many  months  later, 
I  am  walking  under  a  wood  of  Scottish  firs. 
It  is  near  night-fall,  and  the  fir-tops  are  sway- 
ing, and  sighing  hoarsely  in  the  cool  wind  of 
the  Northern  Highlands.  There  is  none  of 
the  smiling  landscape  of  England  about  me; 
and  the  craigs  of  Edinburgh  and  Castle  Stir- 
ling, and  sweet  Perth,  in  its  lovely  valley,  are 
far  to  the  southward.  The  larches  of  Athol 
and  Bruar  Water,  and  that  highland  gem 
Dunkeld,  are  passed.  I  am  tired  with  a  morn- 
ing's tramp  over  Culloden  Moor ;  and  from  the 
edge  of  the  wood  there  stretch  before  me,  in 
the  cool  gray  twilight,  broad  fields  of  heather. 

183 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

In  the  middle  there  rise  against  the  night- 
sky  the  turrets  of  a  castle ;  it  is  Castle  Cawdor, 
where  King  Duncan  was  murdered  by  Mac- 
beth. 

The  sight  of  it  lends  a  spur  to  my  weary 
step;  and  emerging  from  the  wood,  I  bound 
over  the  springy  heather.  In  an  hour  I 
clamber  a  broken  wall,  and  come  under  the 
frowning  shadows  of  the  castle.  The  ivy 
clambers  up  here  and  there,  and  shakes  its 
uncropped  branches  and  its  dried  berries  over 
the  heavy  portal.  I  cross  the  moat,  and  my 
step  makes  the  chains  of  the  drawbridge  rattle. 
All  is  kept  in  the  old  state;  only  in  lieu  of  the 
warder's  horn,  I  pull  at  the  warder's  bell. 
The  echoes  ring  and  die  in  the  stone  courts; 
but  there  is  no  one  astir,  nor  is  there  a  light  at 
any  of  the  castle-windows.  I  ring  again,  and 
the  echoes  come  and  blend  with  the  rising 
night-wind  that  sighs  around  the  turrets  as 
they  sighed  that  night  of  murder.  I  fancy — 
it  must  be  a  fancy — that  I  hear  an  owl  scream ; 
I  am  sure  that  I  hear  the  crickets  cry. 

I  sit  down  upon  the  green  bank  of  the  moat ; 
a  little  dark  water  lies  in  the  bottom.  The 
walls  rise  from  it  gray  and  stern  in  the  deepen- 
ing shadows.  I  hum  chance  passages  of  Mac- 
beth, listening  for  the  echoes, — echoes  from  the 

184 


THE  MORNING 

wall,  and  echoes  from  that  far  away  time  when 
I  stole  the  first  reading  of  the  tragic  story. 

"Didst  thou  not  hear  a  noise  ? 
I  heard  the  owl  scream,  and  the  crickets  cry. 
Did  not  you  speak  ? 

When? 

Now. 

As  I  descended? 
Ay. 

Hark!" 

And  the  sharp  echo  comes  back — "hark!" 
And  at  dead  of  night,  in  the  thatched  cottage 
under  the  castle-walls,  where  a  dark-faced 
Gaelic  woman  in  plaid  turban  is  my  hostess,  I 
wake,  startled  by  the  wind,  and  my  trembling 
lips  say  involuntarily — "hark !" 

Again,  three  months  later,  I  am  in  the  sweet 
county  of  Devon.  Its  valleys  are  like 
emeralds;  its  threads  of  water,  stretched  over 
the  fields  by  their  provident  husbandry,  glisten 
in  the  broad  glow  of  summer  like  skeins  of 
silk.  A  bland  old  farmer,  of  the  true  British 
stamp,  is  my  host.  On  market-days  he  rides 
over  to  the  old  town  of  Totness  in  a  trim,  black 
farmer's  cart;  and  he  wears  glossy  topped 
boots  and  a  broad-brimmed  white  hat.  I  take 

185 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

a  vast  deal  of  pleasure  in  listening  to  his  honest, 
straightforward  talk  about  the  improvements 
of  the  day  and  the  state  of  the  nation.  I  some- 
times get  upon  one  of  his  nags,  and  ride  off 
with  him  over  his  fields,  or  visit  the  homes  of 
the  laborers,  which  show  their  gray  roofs  in 
every  charming  nook  of  the  landscape.  At 
the  parish-church  I  doze  against  the  high  pew- 
backs  as  I  listen  to  the  see-saw  tones  of  the 
drawling  curate;  and  in  my  half- wakeful  mo- 
ments the  withered  holly-sprigs  (not  removed 
since  mid-winter)  grow  upon  my  vision  into 
Christmas-boughs,  and  preach  sermons  to  me 
of  the  days  of  old. 

Sometimes  I  wander  far  over  the  hills  into 
a  neighboring  park,  and  spend  hours  on  hours 
under  the  sturdy  oaks,  watching  the  sleek  fal- 
low deer  gazing  at  me  with  their  soft,  liquid 
eyes.  The  squirrels,  too,  £lay  above  me  with 
their  daring  leaps,  utterly  careless  of  my  pres- 
ence, and  the  pheasants  whir  away  from  my 
very  feet. 

On  one  of  these  random  strolls, — I  remem- 
ber it  very  well, — when  I  was  idling  along, 
thinking  of  the  broad  reach  of  water  that  lay 
between  me  and  that  old  forest  home,  and  beat- 
ing off  the  daisy  heads  with  my  stick,  I  heard 
the  tramp  of  horses  coming  up  one  of  the  forest 

186 


THE  MORNING 

avenues.  The  sound  was  unusual;  for  the 
family,  I  had  been  told,  was  still  in  town,  and 
no  right  of  way  lay  through  the  park.  There 
they  were,  however; — I  was  sure  it  must  be 
the  family,  from  the  careless  way  in  which  they 
sauntered  up. 

First  there  was  a  noble  hound  that  came 
bounding  toward  me,  gazed  a  moment,  and 
turned  to  watch  the  approach  of  the  little  cav- 
alcade. Next  was  an  •  elderly  gentleman 
mounted  upon  a  spirited  hunter,  attended  by 
a  boy  of  some  dozen  years,  who  managed  his 
pony  with  a  grace  that  is  a  part  of  the  English 
boy's  education.  Then  followed  two  older 
lads,  and  a  travelling  phaeton  in  which  sat  a 
couple  of  elderly  ladies.  But  what  most  drew 
my  attention  was  a  girlish  figure  that  rode  be- 
yond the  carriage  upon  a  sleek-limbed  gray. 
There  was  something  in  the  easy  grace  of  her 
attitude  and  the  rich  glow  that  lit  up  her  face — 
heightened,  as  it  was,  by  the  little  black  riding- 
cap  relieved  with  a  single  flowing  plume — that 
kept  my  eye.  It  was  strange,  but  I  thought 
that  I  had  seen  such  a  figure  before,  and  such 
a  face,  and  such  an  eye;  and  as  I  made  the 
ordinary  salutation  of  a  stranger,  and  caught 
her  smile,  I  could  have  sworn  that  it  was  she 
— my  fair  companion  of  the  ocean.  The  truth 

187 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

flashed  upon  me  in  a  moment.  She  was  to 
visit,  she  had  told  me,  a  friend  in  the  south  of 
England; — and  this  was  the  friend's  home; 
and  one  of  the  ladies  in  the  carriage  was  her 
mother,  and  one  of  the  lads  the  school-boy 
brother  who  had  teased  her  on  the  sea. 

I  recall  now  perfectly  her  frank  manner  as 
she  ungloved  her  hand  to  bid  me  welcome.  I 
strolled  beside  them  to  the  steps.  Old  Devon 
had  suddenly  renewed  its  beauties  for  me.  I 
had  much  to  tell  her  of  the  little  outlying  nooks 
which  my  wayward  feet  had  led  me  to;  and 
she — as  much  to  ask.  My  stay  with  the  bland 
old  farmer  lengthened;  and  two  days'  hospi- 
talities at  the  Park  ran  over  into  three,  and 
four.  There  was  hard  galloping  down  those 
avenues;  and  new  strolls,  not  at  all  lonely, 
under  the  sturdy  oaks.  The  long  summer 
twilight  of  England  used  to  find  a  very  happy 
fellow  lingering  on  the  garden-terrace,  looking 
now  at  the  rookery,  where  the  belated  birds 
quarrelled  for  a  resting-place,  and  now  down 
the  long  forest  vista,  gray  with  distance,  and 
closed  with  the  white  spire  of  Modbury  church. 

English  country  life  gains  fast  upon  one — 
very  fast;  and  it  is  not  so  easy  as  in  the  draw- 
ing-room of  Charing  Cross,  to  say — adieu.  But 
it  is  said — very  sadly  said ;  for  God  only  knows 

188 


THE  MORNING 

how  long  it  is  to  last.  And  as  I  rode  slowly 
down  toward  the  lodge  after  my  leave-taking, 
I  turned  back  again,  and  again,  and  again. 
I  thought  I  saw  her  standing  still  upon  the 
terrace,  though  it  was  almost  dark,  and  I 
thought — it  could  hardly  have  been  an  illu- 
sion— that  I  saw  something  white  waving  from 
her  hand. 

Her  name — as  if  I  could  forget  it — was 
Caroline;  her  mother  called  her  Carry.  I 
wondered  how  it  would  seem  for  me  to  call 
her  "Carry."  I  tried  it:  it  sounded  well.  I 
tried  it  over  and  over,  until  I  came  too  near 
the  lodge.  There  I  threw  a  half-crown  to 
the  woman  who  opened  the  gate  for  me.  She  * 
curtsied  low,  and  said,  "God  bless  you,  sir !" 

I  liked  her  for  it ;  I  would  have  given  a  | 
guinea  for  it;  and  that  night — whether  it  was 
the  old  woman's  benediction  or  the  waving 
scarf  upon  the  terrace,  I  do  not  know,  but — 
there  was  a  charm  upon  my  thought  and  my 
hope,  as  if  an  angel  had  been  near  me. 

It  passed  away,  though,  in  my  dreams;  for 7 
I  dreamed  that  I  saw  the  sweet  face  of  Bella 
in  an  English  park,  and  that  she  wore  a  black 
velvet  riding-cap  with  a  plume ;  and  I  came  up 
to  her  and  murmured, — very  tenderly,  I 
thought, — "Carry,  dear  Carry!"  and  she 

189 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

started,  looked  sadly  at  me,  and  turned  away. 
I  ran  after  her  to  kiss  her  as  I  did  when  she 
sat  upon  my  mother's  lap,  on  the  day  when  she 
came  near  drowning.  I  longed  to  tell  her, 
as  I  did  then,  I  do  love  you.  But  she  turned 
her  tearful  face  upon  me,  I  dreamed ;  and  then 
— I  saw  no  more. 


A  ROMAN  GIRL 

1  REMEMBER  the  very  words, — "Non  parlo 

Francese,  Signore, — I  do  not  speak  French, 
Signor,"  said  the  stout  lady :  "but  my  daugh- 
ter, perhaps,  will  understand  you." 

And  she  called,  "Enrica!  Enrica!  venite, 
subito!  c'  e  un  forestiere."  4 

And  the  daughter  came,  her  light-brown 
hair  falling  carelessly  over  her  shoulders,  her 
rich  hazel  eye  twinkling  and  full  of  life,  the 
color  coming  and  going  upon  her  transparent 
cheek,  and  her  bosom  heaving  with  her  quick 
step.  With  one  hand  she  put  back  the  scattered 
locks  that  had  fallen  over  her  forehead,  while 
she  laid  the  other  gently  upon  the  arm  of  her 
mother,  and  asked  in  that  sweet  music  of  the 
south,  "Cosa  volete,  mamma?" 

It  was  the  prettiest  picture  I  had  seen  in 
many  a  day;  and  this  notwithstanding  I  was 


190 


THE  MORNING 

in  Rome,  and  had  come  that  very  morning 
from  the  Palace  Borghese. 

The  stout  lady  was  my  hostess,  and  Enrica  ; 
— so  faijv  so  young,  so  unlike  in  her  beauty  to  • 
other  Italian  beauties — was  my  landlady's 
daughter.  The  house  was  one  of  those  tall 
houses — very,  very  old — which  stand  along 
the  eastern  side  of  the  Corso,  looking  out  upon 
the  Piazzo  di  Colonna.  The  stair  cases  were 
very  tall  and  dirty,  and  they  were  narrow  and 
dark.  Four  flights  of  stone  steps  led  up  to  the 
corridor  where  they  lived.  A  little  trap  was 
in  the  door,  and  there  was  a  bell-rope,  at  the 
least  touch  of  which  I  was  almost  sure  to  hear 
tripping  feet  run  along  the  stone  floor  within, 
and  then  to  see  the  trap  thrown  slyly  back, 
and  those  deep  hazel  eyes  looking  out  upon 
me;  and  then  the  door  would  open,  and  along 
the  corridor,  under  the  daughter's  guidance, 
(until  I  had  learned  the  way,)  I  passed  to  my 
Roman  home.  I  was  a  long  time  learning  the 
way. 

My  chamber  looked  out  upon  the  Corso,  and 
I  could  catch  from  it  a  glimpse  of  the  top  of 
the  tall  column  of  Antoninus,  and  of  a  frag- 
ment of  the  palace  of  the  Governor.  My  par- 
lor, which  was  separated  from  the  apartments 
of  the  family  by  a  narrow  corridor,  looked 

191 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

upon  a  small  court  hung  around  with  balco- 
nies. From  the  upper  one  a  couple  of  black- 
eyed  girls  are  occasionally  looking  out,  and 
they  can  almost  read  the  title  of  my  book  when 
I  sit  by  the  window.  Below  are  three  or  four 
blooming  ragazze,  who  are  dark-eyed,  and  have 
Roman  luxuriance  of  hair.  The  youngest  is  a 
friend  of  our  Enrica,  and  is  of  course  fre- 
quently looking  up,  with  all  the  innocence  in 
the  world,  to  see  if  Enrica  may  be  looking  out. 
Night  after  night  a  bright  blaze  glows  upon 
my  hearth,  of  the  alder  fagots  which  they 
bring  from  the  Alban  hills.  Night  after  night, 
too,  the  family  come  in,  to  aid  my  blundering 
speech,  and  to  enjoy  the  rich  sparkling  of  my 
fagot-fire.  Little  Cesare,  a  dark-faced  Italian 
boy,  takes  up  his  position  with  pencil  and  slate, 
and  draws  by  the  light  of  the  blaze  genii  and 
castles.  The  old  one-eyed  teacher  of  Enrica 
lays  his  snuffbox  upon  the  table,  and  his  hand- 
kerchief across  his  lap,  and  with  his  spectacles 
upon  his  nose,  and  his  big  fingers  on  the  lesson, 
runs  through  the  French  tenses  of  the  verb 
amare.  The  father,  a  sallow-faced,  keen-eyed 
man  with  true  Italian  visage,  sits  with  his  arms 
upon  the  elbows  of  his  chair,  and  talks  of  the 
Pope,  or  of  the  weather.  A  spruce  Count, 
from  the  Marches  of  Ancona,  wears  a  heavy 

192 


THE  MORNING 

watch-seal,  and  reads  Dante  with  furore.  The 
mother,  with  arms  akimbo,  looks  proudly- upon 
her  daughter,  and  counts  her,  as  well  she  may, 
a  gem  among  the  Roman  beauties. 

The  table  was  round,  with  the  fire  blazing  on 
one  side;  there  was  scarce  room  for  more  than 
three  upon  the  other.  Signer  il  maestro  was 
one;  then  Enrica;  and  next — how  well  I  re- 
member it — came  myself.  For  I  could  some- 
times help  Enrica  to  a  word  of  French;  and 
far  oftener  she  could  help  me  to  a  word  of 
Italian.  Her  face  was  rich  and  full  of  feeling ; 
I  used  greatly  to  love  to  watch  the  puzzled  ex- 
pressions that  passed  over  her  forehead  as  the 
sense  of  some  hard  phrase  escaped  her;  and 
better  still,  to  see  the  happy  smile  as  she  caught 
at  a  glance  the  thought  of  some  old  scholastic 
Frenchman,  and  transferred  it  into  the  liquid 
melody  of  her  speech. 

She  had  seen  just  sixteen  summers,  and  only 
that  very  autumn  was  escaped  from  the  thral- 
dom of  a  convent  upon  the  skirts  of  Rome. 
She  knew  nothing  of  life  but  the  life  of  feeling,  , 
and  all  thoughts  of  happiness  lay  as  yet  in  her 
childish  hopes.  It  was  pleasant  to  look  upon 
her  face,  and  it  was  still  more  pleasant  to  listen 
to  that  sweet  Roman  voice.  What  a  rich  flow 
of  superlatives  and  endearing  diminutives  from  | 

193 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

those  vermilion  lips!  Who  would  not  have 
loved  the  study;  and  who  would  not  have 
loved — without  meaning  it — the  teacher? 

In  those  days  I  did  not  linger  long  at  the 
tables  of  lame  Pietro  in  the  Via  Condotti,  but 
would  hurry  back  to  my  little  Roman  parlor — 
the  fire  was  so  pleasant.  And  it  was  so  pleasant 
to  greet  Enrica  with  her  mother  even  before 
the  one-eyed  maestro  had  come  in ;  and  it  was 
pleasant  to  unfold  the  book  between  us,  and  to 
lay  my  hand  upon  the  page — a  small  page — 
where  hers  lay  already.  And  when  she  pointed 
wrong,  it  was  pleasant  to  correct  her,  over  and 
over,  insisting  that  her  hand  should  be  here, 
and  not  there,  and  lifting  those  little  fingers 
from  one  page,  and  putting  them  down  upon 
the  other.  And  sometimes,  half  provoked  with 
my  fault-finding,  she  would  pat  my  hand 
smartly  with  hers;  but  when  I  looked  in  her 
face  to  know  what  that  could  mean,  she  would 
meet  my  eye  with  such  a  kind  submission  and 
half  earnest  regret,  as  made  me  not  only  par- 
don the  offence,  but  tempt  me  to  provoke  it 
again. 

Through  all  the  days  of  Carnival,  when  I 
rode  pelted  with  confetti,  and  pelting  back,  my 
eyes  used  to  wander  up,  from  a  long  way  off, 
to  that  tall  house  upon  the  Corso,  where  I  was 

194 


THE  MORNING 

sure  to  meet,  again  and  again,  those  forgiving 
eyes,  and  that  soft  brown  hair,  all  gathered 
under  the  little  brown  sombrero,  set  off  with 
one  pure  white  plume.  And  her  hand  full  of 
bonbons  she  would  shake  at  me  threateningly, 
and  laugh — a  musical  laugh — as  I  bowed  my 
head  to  the  assault,  and  recovering  from  the 
shower  of  missiles,  would  turn  to  throw  my 
stoutest  bouquet  at  her  balcony.  At  night  I 
would  bear  home  to  the  Roman  parlor  my  best 
trophy  of  the  day,  as  a  guerdon  for  Enrica; 
and  Enrica  would  be  sure  to  render  in  ac- 
knowledgment some  carefully  hidden  flowers, 
the  prettiest  that  her  beauty  had  won. 

Sometimes  upon  those  Carnival  nights  she 
arrays  herself  in  the  costume  of  the  Albanian 
water-carriers;  and  nothing,  one  would  think, 
could  be  prettier  than  the  laced  crimson  jacket, 
and  the  strange  head-gear  with  its  trinkets, 
and  the  short  skirts  leaving  to  view  as  delicate 
an  ankle  as  could  be  found  in  Rome.  Upon 
another  night  she  glides  into  my  little  parlor, 
as  we  sit  by  the  blaze,  in  a  close  velvet  bodice, 
and  with  a  Swiss  hat  caught  up  by  a  looplet 
of  silver,  and  adorned  with  a  full-blown  rose, 
— nothing  you  think  could  be  prettier  than  this. 
Again,  in  one  of  her  girlish  freaks  she  robes 
herself  like  a  nun;  and  with  the  heavy  black 

195 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

serge  for  dress,  and  the  funereal  veil, — relieved 
only  by  the  plain  white  ruffle  of  her  cap, — you 
wish  she  were  always  a  nun.  But  the  wish 
vanishes  when  you  see  her  in  a  pure  white 
muslin,  with  a  wreath  of  orange-blossoms 
about  her  forehead,  and  a  single  white  rose- 
bud in  her  bosom. 

Upon  the  little  balcony  Enrica  keeps  a  pot 
or  two  of  flowers,  which  bloom  all  winter 
long;  and  each  morning  I  find  upon  my  table 
a  fresh  rose-bud;  each  night  I  bear  back  for 
thank-offering  the  prettiest  bouquet  that  can 
be  found  in  the  Via  Condotti.  The  quiet  fire- 
side evenings  come  back, — in  which  my  hand 
seeks  its  wonted  place  upon  her  book;  and  my 
other  will  creep  around  upon  the  back  of  En- 
rica's  chair,  and  Enrica  will  look  indignant — 
and  then  all  forgiveness. 

One  day  I  received  a  large  packet  of  letters. 
Ah,  what  luxury  to  lie  back  in  my  big  arm- 
chair, there  before  the  crackling  fagots,  with 
the  pleasant  rustle  of  that  silken  dress  beside 
me,  and  run  over  a  second  and  a  third  time 
those  mute  paper  missives,  which  bore  to  me 
over  so  many  miles  of  water  the  words  of 
greeting  and  of  love!  It  would  be  worth 
travelling  to  the  shores  of  the  yEgean,  to  find 
one's  heart  quickened  into  such  life  as  the 

196 


THE  MORNING 

ocean  letters  will  make.  Enrica  threw  down 
her  book,  and  wondered  what  could  Jbe  in 
them? — and  snatched  one  from  my  hand  and 
looked  with  sad  but  vain  intensity  over  that 
strange  scrawl.  "What  can  it  be?"  said  she; 
and  she  laid  her  ringer  upon  the  little  half  line 
—"Dear  Paul." 

I  told  her  it  was — "Caro  mio." 

Enrica  laid  it  upon  her  lap  and  looked  in 
my  face.  "It  is  from  your  mother  ?"  said  she. 

"No,"  said  I. 

"From  your  sister?"  said  she. 

"Alas,  no!" 

"//  vostro  fratello,  dunque?" 

"Nemmeno,"  said  I,  "not  from  a  brother 
either." 

She  handed  me  the  letter,  and  took  up  her 
book,  and  presently  she  laid  the  book  down 
again,  and  looked  at  the  letter,  and  then  at 
me, — and  went  out. 

She  did  not  come  in  again  that  evening;  in 
the  morning  there  was  no  rose-bud  on  my 
table.  And  when  I  came  at  night,  with  a 
bouquet  from  Pietro's  at  the  corner,  she  asked 
me  who  had  written  my  letter. 

"A  very  dear  friend,"  said  I. 

"A  lady?"  continued  she. 

"A  lady,"  said  I. 

197 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

"Keep  this  bouquet  for  her,"  said  she,  and 
put  it  in  my  hands. 

"But,  Enrica,  she  has  plenty  of  flowers :  she 
lives  among  them,  and  each  morning  her  chil- 
dren gather  them  by  scores  to  make  garlands 
of." 

Enrica  put  her  fingers  within  my  hand  to 
take  again  the  bouquet;  and  for  a  moment  I 
held  both  fingers  and  flowers. 

The  flowers  slipped  out  first. 

I  had  a  friend  in  Rome  at  that  time,  who 
afterward  died  between  Ancona  and  Corinth. 
We  were  sitting  one  day  upon  a  block  of  tufa 
in  the  middle  of  the  Coliseum,  looking  up  at 
the  shadows  which  the  waving  shrubs  upon 
the  southern  wall  cast  upon  the  ruined  arcades 
within,  and  listening  to  the  chirping  sparrows 
that  lived  upon  the  wreck,  when  he  said  to  me 
suddenly, — "Paul,  you  love  the  Italian  girl." 

"She  is  very  beautiful,"  said  I. 

"I  think  she  is  beginning  to  love  you,"  said 
he,  soberly. 

"She  has  a  very  warm  heart,  I  believe," 
said  I. 

"Aye,"  said  he. 

"But  her  feelings  are  those  of  a  girl,"  con- 
tinued I. 

"They  are  not,"  said  my  friend ;  and  he  laid 

198 


THE  MORNING 

his  hand  upon  my  knee,  and  left  off  drawing 
diagrams  with  his  cane.  "I  have  seen,  Paul, 
more  than  you  of  this  southern  nature.  The 
Italian  girl  of  fifteen  is  a  woman — an  im- 
passioned,  sensitive,  tender  creature, — yet  still 
a  woman ;  you  are  loving — if  you  love — a  full- 
grown  heart;  she  is  loving — if  she  loves — as 
a  ripe  heart  should." 

"But  I  do  not  think  that  either  is  wholly 
true,"  said  I. 

"Try  it,"  said  he,  setting  his  cane  down 
firmly,  and  looking  in  my  face. 

"How?"  returned  I. 

"I  have  three  weeks  upon  my  hands,"  con- 
tinued he.  "Go  with  me  into  the  Apennines; 
leave  your  home  in  the  Corso,  and  see  if  you 
can't  forget  in  the  air  of  the  mountains  your 
bright-eyed  Roman  girl." 

I  was  pondering  for  an  answer,  when  he 
went  on, — "It  is  better  so :  love  as  you  might 
that  southern  nature  with  all  its  passion  is  not 
the  material  to  build  domestic  happiness  upon ; 
nor  is  your  northern  habit — whatever  you  may 
think  at  your  time  of  life — the  one  to  cherish 
always  those  passionate  sympathies  which  are 
bred  by  this  atmosphere  and  their  scenes." 

One  moment  my  thought  ran  to  my  little 
parlor,  and  to  that  fairy  figure,  and  to  that 

199 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

charming  face;  and  then  like  lightning  it  trav- 
'ersed  oceans,  and  fed  upon  the  old  ideal  of 
home,  and  brought  images  to  my  eye  of  lost — 
dead  ones,  who  seemed  to  be  stirring  on  heav- 
enly wings,  in  that  soft  Roman  atmosphere, 
with  greeting  and  with  beckoning. 

"I  will  go  with  you,"  said  I. 

The  father  shrugged  his  shoulders  when  I 
told  him  I  was  going  to  the  mountains  and 
wanted  a  guide.  His  wife  said  it  would  be 
cold  upon  the  hills,  for  the  winter  was  not 
ended.  Enrica  said  it  would  be  warm  in  the 
valleys,  for  the  spring  was  coming.  The  old 
man  drummed  with  his  fingers  on  the  table, 
and  shrugged  his  shoulders  again,  but  said 
nothing. 

My  landlady  said  I  could  not  ride.  Cesare 
said  it  would  be  hard  walking.  Enrica  asked 
papa  if  there  would  be  any  danger?  And 
again  the  old  man  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
Again  I  asked  him  if  he  knew  a  man  who 
would  serve  us  as  guide  among  the  Apennines ; 
and  finding  me  determined,  he  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  said  he  would  find  one  the  next 
day. 

As  I  passed  out  at  evening  on  my  way  to 
the  Piazzo  near  the  Monte  Citorio,  where  stand 
the  carriages  that  go  out  to  Tivoli,  Enrica 

200 


THE  MORNING 

glided  up  to  me  and  whispered,  "Ah,  mi  dis- 
place tanto — tanto,  Signor!" 


THE  APENNINES 

I  SHOOK  her  hand,  and  in  an  hour  afterward 
was  passing  with  my  friend  by  the  Trajan 
forum,  toward  the  deep  shadow  of  San  Mag- 
giore,  which  lay  in  our  way  to  the  mountains. 
At  sunset  we  were  wandering  over  the  ruin 
of  Adrian's  villa,  which  lies  upon  the  first  step 
of  the  Apennines.  Behind  us,  the  vesper-bells 
of  Tivoli  were  sounding,  and  their  echoes  float- 
ing sweetly  under  the  broken  arches ;  before  us, 
stretching  all  the  way  to  the  horizon,  lay  the 
broad  Campagna;  while  in  the  middle  of  its 
great  waves,  turned  violet-colored  by  the  hues 
of  twilight,  rose  the  grouped  towers  of  the 
Eternal  City;  and  lording  it  among  them  all, 
like  a  giant,  stood  the  black  dome  of  St. 
Peter's. 

Day  after  day  we  stretched  on  over  the 
mountains,  leaving  the  Campagna  far  behind 
us.  Rocks  and  stones,  huge  and  ragged,  lie 
strewed  over  the  surface  right  and  left;  deep 
yawning  valleys  lie  in  the  shadows  of  moun- 
tains that  loom  up  thousands  of  feet,  bearing 
perhaps  upon  their  tops  old  castellated  towns 

201 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

perched  like  birds'-nests.  But  mountain  and 
valley  are  blasted  and  scarred ;  the  forests  even 
are  not  continuous,  but  struggle  for  a  liveli- 
hood, as  if  the  brimstone  fire  that  consumed 
Nineveh  had  withered  their  energies.  Some- 
times our  eyes  rest  on  a  great  white  scar  of 
the  broken  calcareous  rock,  on  which  the  moss 
cannot  grow,  and  the  lizards  dare  not  creep. 
Then  we  see  a  cliff  beetling  far  aloft,  with  the 
shining  walls  of  some  monastery  of  holy  men 
glistening  at  its  base.  The  wayside  brooks  do 
not  seem  to  be  the  gentle  offspring  of  bountiful 
hills,  but  the  remnants  of  something  greater 
whose  greatness  has  expired ; — they  are  turbid 
rills,  rolling  in  the  bottom  of  yawning  chasms. 
Even  the  shrubs  have  a  look  as  if  the  Volscian 
war-horse  had  trampled  them  down  to  death; 
and  the  primroses  and  the  violets  by  the  moun- 
tain-path alone  look  modestly  beautiful  amid 
the  ruin. 

Sometimes  we  loiter  in  a  valley,  above  which 
the  goats  are  browsing  on  the  cliffs,  and  listen 
to  the  sweet  pastoral  pipes  of  the  Apennines. 
We  see  the  shepherds  in  their  rough  skin-coats 
high  over  our  heads.  Their  herds  are  feeding, 
as  it  seems,  on  ledges  of  a  hand's-breadth. 
The  sweet  sound  of  their  shepherd  pipes  floats 
and  lingers  in  the  soft  atmosphere,  without  a 
breath  of  wind  to  bear  it  away,  or  a  noise  to 

202 


THE  MORNING 

disturb  its  melody.  The  shadows  slant  more 
and  more  as  we  linger;  and  the  kids  begin  to 
group  together.  And  as  we  wander  on  through 
the  stunted  vineyards  in  the  bottom  of  the  val- 
ley, the  sweet  sound  flows  after  us  like  a  river 
of  song, — nor  leaves  us  till  the  kids  have 
vanished  in  the  distance,  and  the  cliffs  them- 
selves become  one  dark  wall  of  shadow. 

At  night,  in  some  little  meagre  mountain 
town,  we  stroll  about  in  the  narrow  pass-ways, 
or  wander  under  the  heavy  arches  of  the  moun- 
tain churches.  Shuffling  old  women  grope  in 
and  out;  dim  lamps  glimmer  faintly  at  the 
side-altars,  shedding  horrid  light  upon  painted 
images  of  the  dying  Christ.  Or  perhaps,  to 
make  the  old  pile  more  solemn,  there  stands 
some  bier  in  the  middle,  with  a  figure  or  two 
kneeling  at  the  foot,  and  ragged  boys  move 
stealthily  under  the  shadows  of  the  columns. 
Presently  comes  a  young  priest  in  black  robes, 
and  lights  a  taper  at  the  foot,  and  another  at 
the  head, — for  there  is  a  dead  man  on  the  bier ; 
and  the  parched  thin  features  look  awfully  un- 
der the  yellow  light  of  the  tapers,  in  the  gloom 
of  the  great  building.  It  is  very  damp  in  the 
church,  and  the  body  of  the  dead  man  seems 
to  make  the  air  heavy;  so  we  go  out  into  the 
starlight  again. 

In  the  morning,  the  western  slopes  wear 

203 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

broad  shadows,  and  the  frosts  crumple  on  the 
herbage  to  our  tread.  Across  the  valley  it  is 
like  summer;  and  the  birds — for  there  are 
songsters  in  the  Apennines — make  summer 
music.  Their  notes  blend  softly  with  the  faint 
sounds  of  some  far-off  convent-bell  tolling  for 
morning  mass,  and  strike  the  frosted  and 
shaded  mountain-side  with  a  sweet  echo.  As 
we  toil  on,  and  the  shaded  hills  begin  to  glow 
in  the  sunshine,  we  pass  a  train  of  mules  loaded 
with  wine.  We  have  seen  them  an  hour  be- 
fore,— little  black  dots  twining  along  the  white 
streak  of  footway  upon  the  mountain  above 
us.  We  lost  them  as  we  began  to  ascend,  until 
a  wild  snatch  of  an  Apennine  song  turned  our 
eyes  up,  and  there,  straggling  through  the 
brush,  they  appeared  again;  a  foot-slip  would 
have  brought  the  mules  and  wine-casks  rolling 
upon  us.  We  keep  still,  holding  by  the  brush- 
wood, to  let  them  pass.  An  hour  more  and  we 
see  them  toiling  slowly, — mule  and  muleteer, 
— big  dots  and  little  dots, — far  down  where 
we  have  been  before.  The  sun  is  hot  and 
smoking  on  them  in  the  bare  valleys;  the  sun 
is  hot  and  smoking  on  the  hillside,  where  we 
are  toiling  over  the  broken  stones.  I  thought 
of  little  Enrica,  when  she  said — the  spring 
was  coming. 

204 


THE  MORNING 

Time  and  again,  we  sit  down  together — 
my  friend  and  I — upon  some  fragment  of -rock, 
under  the  broad-armed  chestnuts  that  fringe 
the  lower  skirts  of  the  mountains,  and  talk 
through  the  hottest  of  the  noon,  of  the  war- 
riors of  Sylla,  and  of  the  Sabine  women, — but 
oftener  of  the  pretty  peasantry,  and  of  the 
sweet-faced  Roman  girl.  He  too  tells  me  of 
his  life  and  loves,  and  of  the  hopes  that  lie 
misty  and  grand  before  him : — little  did  we 
think  that  in  so  few  years  his  hopes  would  be 
gone,  and  his  body  lying  low  in  the  Adriatic, 
or  tost  with  the  drift  upon  the  Dalmatian 
shores.  Little  did  I  think  that  here  under  the 
ancestral  wood — still  a  wishful  and  blunder- 
ing mortal — I  should  be  gathering  up  the 
shreds  that  memory  can  catch  of  our  Apennine 
wandering,  and  be  weaving  them  into  my 
bachelor  dreams. 

Away  again  upon  the  quick  wing  of  thought, 
I  follow  our  steps,  as,  after  weeks  of  wander- 
ing, we  gained  once  more  a  height  that  over- 
looked the  Campagna,  and  saw  the  sun  setting 
on  its  edge,  throwing  into  relief  the  dome  of 
St.  Peter's  and  blazing  in  a  red  stripe  upon 
the  waters  of  the  Tiber. 

Below  us  was  Palestrina, — the  Praeneste  of 
the  poets  and  philosophers, — the  dwelling 

205 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

place  of — I  know  not  how  many — Emperors. 
We  went  straggling  through  the  dirty  streets, 
searching  for  some  tidy-looking  osteria.  At 
length  we  found  an  old  lady,  who  could  give 
us  a  bed,  but  no  dinner.  My  friend  dropped 
in  a  chair  disheartened.  A  smug-looking 
priest  came  out  to  condole  with  us. 

And  could  Palestrina, — the  frigidum  Pra>- 
neste  of  Horace,  which  had  entertained  over 
and  over  the  noblest  of  the  Colonna,  and  the 
most  noble  Adrian, — could  Palestrina  not  fur- 
nish a  dinner  to  a  tired  traveller? 

"Si,  Signore,"  said  the  smug-looking  priest. 

"Si,  Signorino,"  said  the  neat  old  lady ;  and 
away  we  went  upon  a  new  search.  And  we 
found  bright  and  happy  faces, — especially  the 
little  girl  of  twelve  years,  who  came  close  by 
me  as  I  ate,  and  afterward  strung  a  garland 
of  marigolds,  and  put  it  on  my  head.  Then 
there  was  a  bright-eyed  boy  of  fourteen,  who 
wrote  his  name  and  those  of  the  whole  family 
upon  a  fly-leaf  of  my  book;  and  a  pretty, 
\  saucy-looking  girl  of  sixteen,  who  peeped  a 
long  time  from  behind  the  kitchen-door;  but 
before  the  evening  was  gone  she  was  in  the 
chair  beside  me,  and  had  written  her  name — 
Carlotta — upon  the  first  leaf  of  my  journal. 
When  I  woke,  the  sun  was  up.  From  my 

206 


THE  MORNING 

bed  I  could  see  over  the  town  the  thin,  lazy 
mists  lying  on  the  old  camp-ground  of-  Pyr- 
rhus ;  beyond  it  were  the  mountains  which  hide 
Frascati,  and  Monte-Cavi.  There  was  old 
Colonna,  too,  that, 

"Like  an  eagle's  nest  hangs  on  the  crest, 
Of  purple  Apennine."  l 

As  the  mist  lifted  and  the  sun  brightened 
the  plain,  I  could  see  the  road  along  which 
Sylla  came  fuming  and  maddened  after  the 
Mithridatic  war.  I  could  see,  as  I  half- 
dreamed  and  half-slept,  the  frightened  peas- 
antry whooping  to  their  long-horned  cattle,  as 
they  drove  them  on  tumultuously  up  through 
the  gateways  of  the  town;  and  women  with 
babies  in  their  arms,  and  children  scowling 
with  fear  and  hate,— all  trooping  fast  and 
madly  to  escape  the  hand  of  the  Avenger ;  alas, 
ineffectually,  for  Sylla  murdered  them,  and 
pulled  down  the  walls  of  their  town— the 
proud  Palestrina. 

I  had  a  queer  fancy  of  seeing  the  nobles  of 

Rome,  led  on  by  Stefano  Colonna,  grouping 

along  the  plain,  their  corselets  flashing  out  of 

the  mists,  their  pennons  dashing  above  it,  com- 

1  Macaulay's  Horatius. 

207 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

ing  up  fast  and  still  as  the  wind,  to  make  the 
Mural  Praeneste  their  stronghold  against  the 
Last  of  the  Tribunes.  And  strangely  mingling 
fiction  with  fact,  I  saw  the  brother  of  Walter 
de  Montreal,  with  his  noisy  and  bristling 
army,  crowd  over  the  Campagna,  and  put  up 
his  white  tents,  and  hang  out  his  showy  ban- 
ners on  the  grassy  knolls  that  lay  nearest  my 
eye. 

But  the  knolls  were  all  quiet ;  there  was 

not  so  much  as  a  strolling  contadino  on  them 
to  whistle  a  mimic  fife-note.  A  little  boy  from 
the  inn  went  with  me  upon  the  hill,  to  look  out 
upon  the  town  and  the  wide  sea  of  land  below ; 
and  whether  it  was  the  soft,  warm  April  sun, 
or  the  gray  ruins  below  me,  or  whether  the 
wonderful  silence  of  the  scene,  or  some  wild 
gush  of  memory,  I  do  not  know,  but  something 
made  me  sad. 

"Perche  cosi  penseroso?—Why  so  sad?" 
said  the  quick-eyed  boy.  "The  air  is  beauti- 
ful, the  scene  is  beautiful ;  Signore  is  young, — 
why  is  he  sad?" 

"And  is  Giovanni  never  sad  ?"  said  I. 

"Quasi  mai"  said  the  boy;  "and  if  I  could 
travel  as  Signore,  and  see  other  countries,  I 
would  be  always  gay." 

"May  you  be  always  that !"  said  I. 

208 


THE  MORNING 

The  good  wish  touched  him ;  he  took  me  by 
the  arm  and  said,  "Go  home  with  me,  Sig- 
nore;  you  were  happy  at  the  inn  last  night; 
go  back,  and  we  will  make  you  gay  again !" 

If  we  could  be  always  boys ! 

I  thanked  him  in  a  way  that  saddened  him. 
We  passed  out  shortly  after  from  the  city 
gates,  and  strode  on  over  the  rolling  plain. 
Once  or  twice  we  turned  back  to  look  at  the 
rocky  heights  beneath  which  lay  the  ruined 
town  of  Palestrina, — a  city  that  defied  Rome, 
that  had  a  king  before  a  plough-share  had 
touched  the  Capitoline,  or  the  Janiculan  hill. 
The  ivy  was  covering  up  richly  the  Etruscan 
foundations,  and  there  was  a  quiet  over  the 
whole  place.  The  smoke  was  rising  straight 
into  the  sky  from  the  chimney-tops ;  a  peasant 
or  two  were  going  along  the  road  with  don- 
keys ;  beside  this,  the  city  was  to  all  appearance 
a  dead  city.  And  it  seemed  to  me  that  an  old 
monk,  whom  I  could  see  with  my  glass  near 
the  little  chapel  above  the  town,  might  be  go- 
ing to  say  mass  for  the  soul  of  the  dead  city. 

And  afterward,  when  we  came  near  to 
Rome,  and  passed  under  the  temple-tomb  of 
Metella,  my  friend  said,  "And  will  you  go 
back  now  to  your  home?  or  will  you  set  off 
with  me  to-morrow  for  Ancona?" 

209 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

"At  least  I  must  say  adieu,"  returned  I. 

"God  speed  you!"  said  he;  and  we  parted 
upon  the  Piazza  di  Venezia,— he  for  his  last 
mass  at  St.  Peter's,  and  I  for  the  tall  house 
upon  the  Corso. 

ENRICA 

I  HEAR  her  glancing  feet  the  moment  I  have 
tinkled  the  bell;  and  there  she  is,  with  her 
brown  hair  gathered  into  braids,  and  her  eyes 
full  of  joy  and  greeting.  And  as  I  walk  with 
the  mother  to  the  window,  to  look  at  some 
pageant  that  is  passing,  she  steals  up  behind, 
and  passes  her  arm  around  me  with  a  quick, 
electric  motion,  and  a  gentle  pressure  of  wel- 
come, that  tells  more  than  a  thousand  words. 

It  is  a  pageant  of  death  that  is  passing  be- 
:  low.  Far  down  the  street  we  see  heads  thrust 
out  of  the  window,  and  standing  in  bold  re- 
lief against  the  red  torch-light  of  the  moving 
train.  Below,  dim  figures  are  gathering  on 
the  narrow  side-ways  to  look  at  the  solemn 
spectacle.  A  hoarse  chant  rises  louder  and 
louder,  and  half  dies  in  the  night-air,  and 
breaks  out  again  with  new  and  deep  bitterness. 

Now  the  first  torch-light  under  us  shines 
plainly  on  faces  in  the  windows,  and  on  the 
kneeling  women  in  the  street.  In  the  front, 

210 


THE  MORNING 

come  old  retainers  of  the  dead  one,  bearing 
long,  blazing  flambeaux.  Then  comes  a  com- 
pany of  priests,  two  by  two,  bareheaded,  and 
every  second  one  with  a  lighted  torch,  and  all 
are  chanting. 

Next  is  a  brotherhood  of  friars  in  brown 
cloaks  with  sandalled  feet;  and  the  red  light 
streams  full  upon  their  grizzled  heads.  They 
add  their  heavy  guttural  voices  to  the  chant, 
and  pass  slowly  on. 

Then  comes  a  company  of  priests,  in  white 
muslin  capes,  and  black  robes,  and  black  caps, 
bearing  books  in  their  hands  wide  open,  and 
lit  up  plainly  by  the  torches  of  churchly  servi- 
tors who  march  beside  them;  and  from  the 
books  the  priests  chant  loud  and  solemnly. 
Now  the  music  is  loudest;  and  the  friars  take 
up  the  dismal  notes  from  the  white-caped 
priests,  and  the  priests  before  catch  them  from 
the  brown-robed  friars,  and  mournfully  the 
sound  rises  up  between  the  tall  buildings  into 
the  blue  night-sky  that  lies  between  heaven 
and  Rome. 

— "Vede,  Vede!"  says  Cesare;  and  in  a  blaze 
of  the  red  torch-fire  comes  the  bier,  borne  on 
the  necks  of  stout  friars ;  and  on  the  bier  is  the 
body  of  a  dead  man  habited  like  a  priest. 
Heavy  plumes  of  black  wave  at  each  corner. 

211 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

—"Hist!"  says  my  landlady. 

The  body  is  just  under  us.  Enrica  crosses 
herself;  her  smile  is  for  the  moment  gone. 
Cesare's  boy-face  is  grown  suddenly  earnest. 
We  could  see  the  pale,  youthful  features  of  the 
dead  man.  The  glaring  flambeaux  sent  their 
flaunting  streams  of  unearthly  light  over  the 
wan  visage  of  the  sleeper.  A  thousand  eyes 
were  looking  on  him ;  but  his  face,  careless  of 
them  all,  was  turned  up  straight  toward  the 
stars. 

Still  the  chant  rises;  and  companies  of 
priests  follow  the  bier  like  those  who  had  gone 
before.  Friars  in  brown  cloaks,  and  priests 
and  Carmelites,  come  after — all  with  torches. 
Two  by  two— their  voices  growing  hoarse — 
they  tramp,  and  chant. 

For  a  while  the  voices  cease,  and  you  can 
hear  the  rustling  of  their  robes,  and  their  foot- 
falls, as  if  your  ear  was  to  the  earth.  Then 
the  chant  rises  again  as  they  glide  on  in  a 
wavy,  shining  line,  and  rolls  back  over  the 
death-train,  like  the  howling  of  a  wind  in 
winter. 

As  they  pass,  the  faces  vanish  from  the 
windows.  The  kneeling  women  upon  the 
pavement  rise  up,  mindful  of  the  paroxysm  of 
Life  once  more.  The  groups  in  the  doorways 

212 


THE  MORNING 

scatter.  But  their  low  voices  do  not  drown  the 
voices  of  the  host  of  mourners  and  their  ghost- 
like music. 

I  look  long  upon  the  blazing  bier  trailing 
under  the  deep  shadows  of  the  Roman  palaces, 
and  at  the  stream  of  torches  winding  like  a 
glittering,  scaled  serpent. — "It  is  a  priest," 
say  I  to  my  landlady,  as  she  closes  the  window. 

"No,  Signor, — a  young  man  never  married ; 
and  so  by  virtue  of  his  condition  they  put  on 
him  the  priest-robes." 

"So  I,"  says  the  pretty  Enrica,  "if  I  should 
die,  would  be  robed  in  white,  as  you  saw  me 
on  a  Carnival  night,  and  be  followed  by  nuns 
for  sisters." 

"A  long  way  off  may  it  be,  Enrica !" 

She  took  my  hand  in  hers  and  pressed  it. 
An  Italian  girl  does  not  fear  to  talk  of  death ; 
and  we  were  talking  of  it  still  as  we  walked 
back  to  my  little  parlor — my  hand  all  the  time 
in  hers — and  sat  down  by  the  blaze  of  my  fire. 

It  was  Holy  Week.  Never  had  Enrica 
looked  more  sweetly  than  in  that  black  dress, — 
under  that  long,  dark  veil  of  the  days  of  Lent. 
Upon  the  broad  pavement  of  St.  Peter's,  where 
the  people,  flocking  by  thousands,  made  only 
side-groups  about  the  altars  of  the  vast  temple, 
I  have  watched  her  kneeling  beside  her  mother, 

213 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

her  eyes  bent  down,  her  lips  moving  earnestly, 
and  her  whole  figure  tremulous  with  deep  emo- 
tion. Wandering  around  among  the  halber- 
diers of  the  Pope,  and  the  court-coats  of 
Austria,  and  the  barefooted  pilgrims  with  san- 
dal, shell,  and  staff,  I  would  sidle  back  again 
to  look  upon  that  kneeling  figure;  and  leaning 
'  against  the  huge  columns  of  the  church,  would 
dream — even  as  I  am  dreaming  now. 

At  nightfall  I  urge  my  way  into  the  Sistine 
Chapel.  Enrica  is  beside  me,  looking  with  me 
upon  the  gaunt  figures  of  the  Judgment  of 
Angelo.  They  are  chanting  the  Miserere. 
The  twelve  candlesticks  by  the  altar  are  put 
out  one  by  one,  as  the  service  continues.  The 
sun  has  gone  down,  and  only  the  red  glow  of 
twilight  steals  through  the  dusky  windows. 
There  is  a  pause,  and  a  brief  reading  from  a 
red-cloaked  cardinal,  and  all  kneel  down.  She 
kneels  beside  me ;  and  the  sweet,  mournful  flow 
of  the  Miserere  begins  again,  growing  in  force 
and  depth  till  the  whole  chapel  rings,  and  the 
balcony  of  the  choir  trembles ;  then  it  subsides 
again  into  the  low,  soft  wail  of  a  single  voice, 
so  prolonged,  so  tremulous,  and  so  real,  that 
(  the  heart  aches — for  Christ  is  dead! 

Lingering  yet,  the  wail  dies  not  wholly,  but 
just  as  it  seemed  expiring,  it  is  caught  up  by 

214 


THE  MORNING 

another  and  stronger  voice  that  carries  it  on, 
plaintive  as  ever ; — nor  does  it  stop  with  this ; 
for  just  as* you  looked  for  silence,  three  voices 
more  begin  the  lament, — sweet,  touching, 
mournful  voices, — and  bear  it  up  to  a  full 
cry,  when  the  whole  choir  catch  its  burden, 
and  make  the  lament  change  into  the  wailing 
of  a  multitude, — wild  shrill,  hoarse, — with 
swift  chants  intervening,  as  if  agony  had  given 
force  to  anguish.  Then,  sweetly,  slowly,  voice 
by  voice,  note  by  note,  the  wailings  sink  into 
the  low,  tender  moan  of  a  single  singer — fal- 
tering, tremulous,  as  if  tears  checked  the  utter- 
ance, and  swelling  out  in  gusts  of  sound  as  if 
despair  sustained  it. 

It  was  dark  in  the  chapel  when  we  went  out ; 
voices  were  low.  Enrica  said  nothing, — I 
could  say  nothing. 

I  was  to  leave  Rome  after  Easter.  I  did  not 
love  to  speak  of  it,  nor  to  think  of  it.  Rome — 
that  old  city  with  all  its  misery,  and  its  fallen 
state,  and  its  broken  palaces  of  the  Empire — 
grows  upon  one's  heart.  The  fringing  shrubs/ 
of  the  Coliseum,  flaunting  their  blossoms  at 
the  tall  beggarmen  in  cloaks,  who  grub  be- 
low,— the  sun  glimmering  over  the  mossy  pile 
of  the  House  of  Nero, — the  sweet  sunsets 
from  the  Pincian,  that  make  the  broad  pine- 

215 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

tops  of  the  Janiculan  stand  sharp  and  dark 
against  a  sky  of  gold, — cannot  easily  be  left 
behind.  And  Enrica,  with  her  silver-brown 
hair,  and  the  silken  fillet  that  bound  it, — and 
her  deep  hazel  eyes, — and  her  white,  delicate 
fingers, — and  the  blue  veins  chasing  over  her 
fair  temples, — ah,  Easter  is  too  near. 

But  it  comes;  and  passes  with  the  glory  of 
St.  Peter's — lighted  from  top  to  bottom.  With 
Enrica,  I  saw  it  from  the  Ripetta,  as  it  loomed 
up  in  the  distance,  like  a  city  on  fire. 

The  next  day  I  bring  home  my  last  bunch 
of  flowers,  and  with  it  a  little  richly  chased 
Roman  ring.  No  fire  blazes  on  the  hearth, — 
but  they  are  all  there.  Warm  days  have  come, 
and  the  summer  air  even  now  hangs,  heavy 
with  fever,  in  the  hollows  of  the  plain. 

I  heard  them  stirring  early  on  the  morning 
on  which  I  was  to  go  away.  I  do  not  think  I 
slept  very  well  myself — nor  very  late.  Never 
did  Enrica  look  more  beautiful — never.  All 
her  Carnival  robes,  and  the  sad  drapery  of  the 
Friday  of  Crucifixion,  could  not  so  adorn  her 
beauty  as  that  neat  morning-dress,  and  that 
simple  rose-bud  she  wore  upon  her  bosom. 
She  gave  it  to  me — the  last — with  a  trembling 
hand.  I  did  not,  for  I  could  not,  thank  her. 
She  knew  it;  and  her  eyes  were  full. 

216 


THE  MORNING 

The  old  man  kissed  my  cheek, — it  was  the 
Roman  custom ;  but  the  custom  did  not  extend 
to  the  Roman  girls — at  least  not  often.  As  I 
passed  down  the  Corso  I  looked  back  at  the 
balcony,  where  she  stood  in  the  time  of  Carni- 
val, in  the  brown  sombrero  with  the  white 
plume.  I  knew  she  would  be  there  now;  and 
there  she  was.  My  eyes  dwelt  upon  the  vision, 
very  loth  to  leave  it ;  and  after  my  eyes  had  lost 
it,  my  heart  clung  to  it, — there,  where  my 
memory  clings  now. 

At  noon,  the  carriage  stopped  upon  the  hills 
toward  Soracte,  that  overlooked  Rome.  There 
was  a  stunted  pine-tree  grew  a  little  way  from 
the  road,  and  I  sat  down  under  it, — for  I 
wished  no  dinner, — and  I  looked  back  with 
strange  tumult  of  feeling  upon  the  sleeping 
city,  with  the  gray,  billowy  sea  of  the  Cam- 
pagna  lying  around  it. 

I  seemed  to  see  Enrica — the  Roman  girl — 
in  that  morning-dress,  with  her  brown  hair 
in  its  silken  fillet;  but  the  rose-bud,  that  was 
in  her  bosom,  was  now  in  mine.  Her  silvery 
voice  too  seemed  to  float  past  me,  bearing 
snatches  of  Roman  songs;  but  the  songs  were 
sad  and  broken. 

After  all,  this  is  sad  vanity !  thought  I ; 

and  yet  if  I  had  espied  then  some  returning 

217 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

carriage  going  down  toward  Rome,  I  will  not 
say — but  that  I  should  have  hailed  it,  and 
taken  a  place,  and  gone  back,  and  to  this  day, 
perhaps — have  lived  at  Rome. 

But  the  vetturino  called  me;  the  coach  was 
ready ;  I  gave  one  more  look  toward  the  dome 
that  guarded  the  sleeping  city;  and  then  we 
galloped  down  the  mountain  on  the  road  that 
lay  toward  Perugia  and  Lake  Thrasimene. 

Sweet  Enrica !  art  thou  living  yet  ?  Or 

hast  thou  passed  away  to  that  Silent  Land 
where  the  good  sleep  and  the  beautiful? 


The  visions  of  the  Past  fade.  The  morning 
breeze  has  died  upon  the  meadow ;  the  Bob-o'- 
Lincoln  sits  swaying  upon  the  willow-tufts, 
singing  no  longer.  The  trees  lean  to  the 
brook ;  but  the  shadows  fall  straight  and  dense 
upon  the  silver  stream. 

NOON  has  broken  into  the  middle  sky;  and 
MORNING  is  gone. 


218 


II 

NOON 

THE  Noon  is  short;  the  sun  never  loiters  on 
the  meridian,  nor  does  the  shadow  on  the  old 
dial  by  the  garden  stay  long  at  XII.     The~? 
Present,  like  the  noon,  is  only  a  point;  and  a 
point  so  fine,  that  it  is  not  measureable  by  the  - 
grossness  of  action.    Thought  alone  is  delicate 
enough  to  tell  the  breadth  of  the  Present. 

The  Past  belongs  to  God ;  the  Present  only 
is  ours.  And  short  as  it  is,  there  is  more  in  it 
and  of  it  than  we  can  well  manage.  That  man 
who  can  grapple  it,  and  measure  it,  and  fill  it 
with  his  purpose,  is  doing  a  man's  work;  none 
can  do  more;  but  there  are  thousands  who  do 
less. 

Short  as  it  is,  the  Present  is  great  and 
strong, — as  much  stronger  than  the  Past  as 
fire  than  ashes,  or  as  Death  than  the  grave.  ; 
The  noon  sun  will  quicken  vegetable  life  that 
in  the  morning  was  dead.  It  is  hot  and  scorch- 
ing; I  feel  it  now  upon  my  head;  but  it  does 
not  scorch  and  heat  like  the  bewildering  Pres- 
ent. There  are  no  oak-leaves  to  interrupt  the 
rays  of  the  burning  Now.  Its  shadows  do  not 

219 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

fall  east  or  west:  like  the  noon,  the  shade  it 
makes  falls  straight  from  sky  to  earth, — 
straight  from  Heaven  to  Hell. 

Memory  presides  over  the  Past ;  Action  pre- 
sides over  the  Present.  The  first  lives  in  a 
rich  temple  hung  with  glorious  trophies  and 
lined  with  tombs ;  the  other  has  no  shrine  but 
Duty,  and  it  walks  the  earth  like  a  spirit. 

1  called  my  dog  to  me,  and  we  shared 

together  the  meal  that  I  had  brought  away  at 
sunrise  from  the  mansion  under  the  elms;  and 
now  Carlo  is  gnawing  at  the  bone  that  I  have 
thrown  to  him,  and  I  stroll  dreamily  in  the 
quiet  noon  atmosphere  upon  that  grassy  knoll 
under  the  oaks. 

Noon  in  the  country  is  very  still:  the  birds 
do  not  sing;  the  workmen  are  not  in  the  field; 
the  sheep  lay  their  noses  to  the  ground ;  and  the 
herds  stand  in  pools  under  shady  trees,  lash- 
ing their  sides,  but  otherwise  motionless.  The 
mills  upon  the  brook  far  above  have  ceased  for 
an  hour  their  labor ;  and  the  stream  softens  its 
rustle,  and  sinks  away  from  the  sedgy  banks. 
The  heat  plays  upon  the  meadow  in  noiseless 
waves,  and  the  beech-leaves  do  not  stir. 

Thought,  I  said,  was  the  only  measure  of 
the  Present;  and  the  stillness  of  Noon  breeds 
thought,  and  my  thought  brings  up  the  old 

220 


NOON 

companions,  and  stations  them  in  the  domain 
of  Now.  Thought  ranges  over  the  world, -and  ; 
brings  up  hopes  and  fears  and  resolves  to 
measure  the  burning  Now.  Joy,  and  grief, 
and  purpose,  blending  in  my  thought,  give 
breadth  to  the  Present. 

— Where,  thought  I,  is  little  Isabel  now? 
Where  is  Lilly ;  where  is  Ben  ?  Where  is  Les- 
lie; where  is  my  old  teacher?  Where  is  my 
chum  who  played  such  rare  tricks?  Where  is 
the  black-eyed  Jane?  Where  is  that  sweet- 
faced  girl  whom  I  parted  with  upon  the  ter- 
race looking  down  upon  the  old  spire  of  Mod- 
bury  church?  Where  are  my  hopes;  where 
my  purposes;  where  my  sorrows? 

I  care  not  who  you  are,  but  if  you  bring  such 
thought  to  measure  the  Present,  the  Present 
will  seem  broad ;  and  it  will  be  sultry  as  Noon, 
and  make  a  fever  of  Now. 


EARLY  FRIENDS 

WHERE  are  they? 

I  cannot  sit  now,  as  once,  upon  the  edge  of 
the  brook  hour  after  hour,  flinging  off  my  line 
and  hook  to  the  nibbling  roach,  and  reckon  it 
great  sport.  There  is  no  girl  with  auburn 
ringlets  to  sit  beside  me,  and  to  play  upon  the 

221 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

bank.  The  hours  are  shorter  than  they  were 
then;  and  the  little  joys  that  furnished  boy- 
hood till  the  heart  was  full,  can  fill  it  no  longer. 
Poor  Tray  is  dead  long  ago,  and  he  cannot 
swim  into  the  pools  for  the  floating  sticks; 
nor  can  I  sport  with  him  hour  after  hour,  and 
think  it  happiness.  The  mound  that  covers 
his  grave  is  sunken,  and  the  trees  that  shaded 
it  are  broken  and  mossy. 

Little  Lilly  is  grown  into  a  woman,  and  is 
married;  and  she  has  another  little  Lilly,  with 
flaxen  hair,  she  says, — looking  as  she  used  to 
look.  I  dare  say  the  child  is  pretty;  but  it  is 
not  my  Lilly.  She  has  a  little  boy,  too,  that 
she  calls  Paul, — a  chubby  rogue,  she  writes, 
and  as  mischievous  as  ever  I  was.  God  bless 
the  boy! 

Ben,  who  would  have  liked  to  ride  in  the 
coach  that  carried  me  away  to  school,  has  had 
a  great  many  rides  since  then, — rough  rides, 
and  hard  ones,  over  the  road  of  Life.  He  does 
not  rake  up  the  falling  leaves  for  bonfires,  as 
he  did  once ;  he  is  grown  a  man,  and  is  fighting 
his  way  somewhere  in  our  western  world  to 
the  short-lived  honors  of  time.  He  was  mar- 
ried not  long  ago;  his  wife  I  remembered  as 
one  of  my  playmates  at  my  first  school;  she 
was  beautiful,  but  fragile  as  a  leaf.  She  died 

222 


NOON 

within  a  year  of  their  marriage.  Ben  was  but 
four  years  my  senior,  but  this  grief  has  made 
him  ten  years  older.  He  does  not  say  it,  but 
his  eye  and  his  figure  tell  it. 

The  nurse,  who  put  the  purse  in  my  hand 
that  dismal  morning,  is  grown  a  feeble  old 
woman.  She  was  over  fifty  then ;  she  may  well 
be  seventy  now.  She  did  not  know  my  voice 
when  I  went  to  see  her  the  other  day,  nor  did 
she  know  my  face  at  all.  She  repeated  the 
name  when  I  told  it  to  her :  "Paul,  Paul," — 
she  did  not  remember  any  Paul  except  a  little 
boy,  a  long  while  ago. 

"To  whom  you  gave  a  purse  when  he 

went  away,  and  told  him  to  say  nothing  to 
Lilly  or  to  Ben?" 

"Yes,  that  Paul,"  says  the  old  woman,  ex- 
ultingly;  "do  you  know  him?" 

And  when  I  told  her, — "she  would  not  have 
believed  it!"  But  she  did,  and  took  hold  of 
my  hand  again  (for  she  was  blind)  ;  and  then 
smoothed  down  the  plaits  of  her  apron,  and 
jogged  her  cap-strings,  to  look  tidy  in  the 
presence  of  "the  gentleman."  And  she  told 
me  long  stories  about  the  old  house,  and  how 
other  people  came  in  afterward ;  and  she  called  ? 
me  "Sir"  sometimes,  and  sometimes  "Paul." 
But  I  asked  her  to  say  only  Paul ;  she  seemed  , 

223 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

glad  for  this,  and  talked  easier ;  and  went  on  to 
tell  of  my  old  playmates,  and  how  we  used  to 
ride  the  pony, — poor  Jacko! — and  how  we 
gathered  nuts, — such  heaping  piles ;  and  how 
we  used  to  play  at  fox-and-geese  through  the 
long  winter  evenings ;  and  how  my  poor  mother 

would  smile but  here  I  asked  her  to  stop. 

She  could  not  have  gone  on  much  longer,  for 
I  believe  she  loved  our  house  and  people  better 
than  she  loved  her  own. 

As  for  my  uncle,  the  cold,  silent  man,  who 
lived  with  his  books  in  the  house  upon  the  hill, 
and  who  used  to  frighten  me  sometimes  with 
his  look,  he  grew  very  feeble  after  I  had  left, 
and  almost  crazed.  The  country-people  said 
that  he  was  mad;  and  Isabel  with  her  sweet 
heart  clung  to  him,  and  would  lead  him  out, 
when  his  step  tottered,  to  the  seat  in  the  gar- 
den, and  read  to  him  out  of  the  books  he  loved 
to  hear.  And  sometimes,  they  told  me,  she 
would  read  to  him  some  letters  that  I  had  writ- 
ten to  Lilly  or  to  Ben,  and  ask  him  if  he  re- 
membered Paul,  who  saved  her  from  drown- 
ing under  the  tree  in  the  meadow?  But  he 
could  only  shake  his  head,  and  mutter  some- 
thing about  how  old  and  feeble  he  had  grown. 

They  wrote  me  afteward  that  he  died;  and 
was  buried  in  a  far-away  place,  where  his  wife 

224 


NOON 

once  lived,  and  where  he  now  sleeps  beside  her. 
Isabel  was  sick  with  grief,  and  came  to  -live 
for  a  time  with  Lilly,  but  when  they  wrote  me 
last,  she  had  gone  back  to  her  old  home, — 
where  Tray  was  buried, — where  we  had  played 
together  so  often  through  the  long  days  of 
summer. 

I  was  glad  I  should  find  her  there  when  I  ; 
came  back.     Lilly  and  Ben  were  both  living  \ 
nearer  to  the  city  when  I  landed  from  my  long 
journey  over  the  seas;  but  still  I  went  to  find 
Isabel  first.     Perhaps  I  had  heard  so  much 
oftener  from  the  others  that  I  felt  less  eager 
to  see  them;  or  perhaps  I  wanted  to  save  my 
best  visits  to  the  last;  or  perhaps  (I  did  think 
it) — perhaps  I  loved  Isabel  better  than  them 
all. 

So  I  went  into  the  country,  thinking  all  the 
way  how  she  must  have  changed  since  I  left. 
She  must  be  now  nineteen  or  twenty ;  and  then  I 
her  grief  must  have  saddened  her  face  some- 
what; but  I  thought  I  should  like  her  all  the 
better  for  that.  Then  perhaps  she  would  not 
laugh,  and  tease  me,  but  would  be  quieter,  and 
wear  a  sweet  smile, — so  calm  and  beautiful, 
I  thought.  Her  figure  too  must  have  grown  / 
more  elegant,  and  she  would  have  more  dig- 
nity in  her  air. 

225 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

I  shuddered  a  little  at  this ;  for  I  thought, — 
t .  she  will  hardly  think  so  much  of  me  then ;  per- 
haps she  will  have  seen  those  whom  she  likes 
a  great  deal  better.  Perhaps  she  will  not  like 
me  at  all ;  yet  I  knew  very  well  that  I  should 
like  her. 

I  had  gone  up  almost  to  the  house;  I  had 
passed  the  stream  where  we  fished  on  that  day, 
many  years  before;  and  I  thought  that  now 
since  she  was  grown  to  womanhood,  I  should 
never  sit  with  her  there  again,  and  surely 
never  drag  her  as  I  did  out  of  the  water,  and 
never  chafe  her  little  hands,  and  never  perhaps 
kiss  her  as  I  did  when  she  sat  upon  my  moth- 
er's lap,  — oh,  no — no — no! 

I  saw  where  we  buried  Tray,  but  the  old 
slab  was  gone ;  there  was  no  ribbon  there  now. 
I  thought  that  at  least  Isabel  would  have  re- 
placed the  slab;  but  it  was  a  wrong  thought. 
I  trembled  when  I  went  up  to  the  door;  for  it 
flashed  upon  me,  that  perhaps  Isabel  was  mar- 
ried. I  could  not  tell  why  she  should  not;  but 
I  knew  it  would  make  me  uncomfortable  to 
hear  that  she  had. 

There  was  a  tall  woman,  who  opened  the 
door;  she  did  not  know  me;  but  I  recognized 
her  as  one  of  the  old  servants.  I  asked  after 
the  housekeeper  first,  thinking  I  would  sur- 

226 


NOON 

prise  Isabel.  My  heart  fluttered  somewhat, 
thinking  that  she  might  step  in  suddenly  her- 
self, or  perhaps  that  she  might  have  seen  me 
coming  up  the  hill.  But  even  then,  I  thought, 
she  would  hardly  know  me. 

Presently  the  housekeeper  came  in,  looking 
very  grave;  she  asked  if  the  gentleman  wished 
to  see  her? 

The  gentleman  did  wish  it,  and  she  sat  down 
on  one  side  of  the  fire ;  for  it  was  autumn,  and 
the  leaves  were  falling,  and  the  November 
winds  were  very  chilly. 

Shall  I  tell  her,  thought  I,  who  I  am, 

or  ask  at  once  for  Isabel  ?  I  tried  to  ask ;  but 
it  was  hard  for  me  to  call  her  name;  it  was 
very  strange,  but  I  could  not  pronounce  it  at 
all. 

"Who,  sir?"  said  the  housekeeper,  in  a  tone 
so  earnest  that  I  rose  at  once,  and  crossed  over, 
and  took  her  hand :  "You  know  me,"  said  I, — 
"you  surely  remember  Paul?" 

She  started  with  surprise,  but  recovered  her- 
self and  resumed  the  same  grave  manner.  I 
thought  I  had  committed  some  mistake,  or 
been  in  some  way  cause  of  offence.  I  called 
her  "Madam,"  and  asked  for — Isabel. 

She  turned  pale,  terribly  pale ;  "Bella  ?"  said 
she. 

227 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

"Yes,  Bella." 

"Sir,  Bella  is  dead !" 

I  dropped  into  my  chair.  I  said  nothing. 
The  housekeeper— bless  her  kind  heart — 
slipped  noiselessly  out.  My  hands  were  over 
my  eyes.  The  winds  were  sighing  outside, 
and  the  clock  ticking  mournfully  within. 

I  did  not  sob,  nor  weep,  nor  utter  any  cry. 

The  clock  ticked  mournfully,  and  the  winds 
were  sighing;  but  I  did  not  hear  them  any 
longer ;  there  was  a  tempest  raging  within  me, 
that  would  have  drowned  the  voice  of  thunder. 

It  broke  at  length  in  a  long,  deep  sigh :  "O 
God !"  It  may  have  been  a  prayer ;  it  was  not 
an  imprecation. 

Bella — sweet  Bella  was  dead!  It  seemed  as 
if  with  her  half  the  world  were  dead, — every 
bright  face  darkened, — every  sunshine  blotted 
out, — every  flower  withered, — every  hope  ex- 
tinguished. 

I  walked  out  into  the  air  and  stood  under 
the  trees  where  we  had  played  together  with 
poor  Tray, — where  Tray  lay  buried.  But  it 
was  not  Tray  I  thought  of,  as  I  stood  there, 
with  the  cold  wind  playing  through  the  trees, 
and  my  eyes  filling  with  tears.  How  could 
she  die?  Why  was  she  gone?  Was  it  really 
true?  Was  Isabel  indeed  dead, — in  her  coffin, 

228 


NOON 

— buried?  Then  why  should  anybody  live? 
What  was  there  to  live  for  now  that  Bella  was 
gone? 

Ah,  what  a  gap  in  the  world  is  made  by  the 
death  of  those  we  love !  It  is  no  longer  whole, 
but  a  poor  half-world,  that  swings  uneasy  on 
its  axis,  and  makes  one  dizzy  with  the  clatter 
of  its  wreck. 

The  housekeeper  told  me  all,  little  by  little, 
as  I  found  calmness  to  listen.  She  had  been 
dead  a  month.  Lilly  was  with  her  through  it 
all ;  she  died  sweetly,  without  pain,  and  with- 
out fear, — what  can  angels  fear?  She  had 
spoken  often  of  "Cousin  Paul";  she  had  left 
a  little  packet  for  him,  but  it  was  not  there; 
she  had  given  it  into  Lilly's  keeping. 

Her  jgrave,  the  housekeeper  told  me,  was 
only  a  little  way  off  from  her  home, — beside 
the  grave  of  a  brother  who  died  long  years 
before.  I  went  there  that  evening.  The 
mound  was  high  and  fresh.  The  sods  had  not 
closed  together,  and  the  dry  leaves  caught  in 
the  crevices,  and  gave  a  ragged  and  terrible 
look  to  the  spot.  The  next  day  I  laid  them  all 
smooth, — as  we  had  once  laid  them  on  the 
grave  of  Tray;  I  clipped  the  long  grass,  and 
set  a  tuft  of  late  blooming,  bird-foot  violets 
upon  the  mound.  The  homestead,  the  trees, 

229 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

the  fields,  the  meadows,  in  the  windy  Novem- 
ber, looked  dismally.  I  could  not  like  them 
again ;  I  liked  nothing — but  the  little  mound  I 
had  dressed  over  Bella's  grave.  There  she 
sleeps  now, — the  sleep  of  Death. 


SCHOOL  REVISITED 

THE  old  school  is  there  still,  with  the  high 
cupola  upon  it,  and  the  long  galleries,  with  the 
sleeping-rooms  opening  out  on  either  side,  and 
the  corner  one  where  I  slept.  But  the  boys  are 
not  there,  nor  the  old  teachers.  They  have 
ploughed  up  the  playground  to  plant  corn; 
and  the  apple-tree  with  the  low  limb,  that  made 
our  gymnasium,  is  cut  down. 

I  was  there  only  a  little  time  ago.  It  was  on 
a  Sunday.  One  of  the  old  houses  of  the  vil- 
lage had  been  fashioned  into  an  inn,  and  it  was 
there  I  stopped.  But  I  strolled  by  the  old 
tavern,  and  looked  into  the  bar-room,  where 
I  used  to  gaze  with  wonder  upon  the  enormous 
pictures  of  wild  animals,  which  heralded  some 
coming  menagerie.  There  was  just  such  a 
picture  hanging  there  still,  and  two  or  three 
advertisements  of  sheriffs,  and  a  little  bill  of 
a  "horse  stolen,"  and  as  I  thought,  the  same 
brown  pitcher  on  the  edge  of  the  bar.  I  was 

230 


NOON 

sure  it  was  the  same  great  wood-box  that  stood 
by  the  fireplace,  and  the  same  whip  and  great- 
coat seemed  to  me  to  be  hanging  in  the  corner. 

I  was  not  in  so  gay  a  costume  as  I  once 
thought  I  would  be  wearing,  when  a  man;  I 
had  nothing  better  than  a  rusty  shooting- 
jacket;  but  even  with  this  I  was  determined  to 
have  a  look  about  the  church,  and  see  if  I  could 
trace  any  of  the  faces  of  old  times.  They  had 
sadly  altered  the  building ;  they  had  cut  out  its 
long  galleries,  and  its  old-fashioned  square 
pews,  and  filled  it  with  narrow  boxes,  as  they 
do  in  the  city.  The  pulpit  was  not  so  high,  or 
grand ;  and  it  was  covered  over  with  the  work 
of  the  cabinet-makers. 

I  missed,  too,  the  old  preacher  whom  we  all 
feared  so  much;  and  in  place  of  him  was  a 
jaunty-looking  man,  whom  I  thought  I  would 
not  be  at  all  afraid  to  speak  to,  or  if  need  be, 
to  slap  on  the  shoulder.  And  when  I  did  meet 
him  after  church,  I  looked  him  in  the  eye  as 
boldly  as  a  lion; — what  a  change  was  that 
from  the  school-days! 

Here  and  there  I  could  detect  about  the 
church  some  old  farmer,  by  the  stoop  in  his 
shoulders,  or  by  a  particular  twist  in  his  nose ; 
and  one  or  two  young  fellows,  who  used  to 
storm  into  the  gallery  in  my  school-days,  in 

231 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

very  gay  jackets  dressed  off  with  ribbons, — 
which  we  thought  was  astonishing  heroism, 
and  admired  accordingly, — were  now  settled 
down  into  fathers  of  families,  and  looked  as 
demure  and  peaceable  at  the  head  of  their 
pews,  with  a  white-headed  boy  or  two  between 
them  and  their  wives,  as  if  they  had  been  mar- 
ried all  their  days. 

There  was  a  stout  man,  too,  with  a  slight 
limp  in  his  gait,  who  used  to  work  on  har- 
nesses, and  strap  our  skates,  and  who  I  always 
thought  would  have  made  a  capital  Vulcan; 
he  stalked  up  the  aisle  past  me  as  if  I  had  my 
skates  strapped  at  his  shop  only  yesterday. 

The  bald-pated  shoemaker,  who  never  kept 
his  word,  and  who  worked  in  the  brick  shop, 
and  who  had  a  son  called  Theodore, — which 
we  all  thought  a  very  pretty  name  for  a  shoe- 
maker's son, — I  could  not  find.  I  feared  he. 
might  be  dead.  I  hoped,  if  he  was,  that  his 
broken  promises  about  patching  boots  would 
not  come  up  against  him. 

The  old  factor  of  tamarinds  and  sugar- 
crackers,  who  used  to  drive  his  covered  wagon 
every  Saturday  evening  into  the  play-ground, 
I  observed,  still  holding  his  place  in  the  village 
choir,  and  singing — though  with  a  tooth  or  two 
gone — as  serenely  and  obstreperously  as  ever. 

232 


NOON 

I  looked  around  the  church  to  find  the  black- 
eyed  girl,  who  always  sat  behind  the  choir, — 
the  one  I  loved  to  look  at  so  much.  I  knew 
she  must  be  grown  up;  but  I  could  fix  upon 
no  face  positively ;  once,  as  a  stout  woman  with 
a  pair  of  boys,  and  who  wore  a  big  red  shawl, 
turned  half-around,  I  thought  I  recognized 
her  nose.  If  it  was  she,  it  had  grown  red 
though,  and  I  felt  cured  of  my  old  fondness. 
As  for  the  other,  who  wore  the  hat  trimmed 
with  fur,  she  was  nowhere  to  be  seen,  among 
either  maids  or  matrons;  and  when  I  asked 
the  tavern-keeper,  and  described  her  and  her 
father  as  they  were  in  my  school-days,  he  told 
me  that  she  had  married  too,  and  lived  some 
five  miles  from  the  village;  and,  said  he,  "I~* 
guess  she  leads  her  husband  a  devil  of  a  life!" 

I  felt  cured  of  her  too;  but  I  pitied  the 
husband. 

One  of  my  old  teachers  was  in  the  church; 
I  could  have  sworn  to  his  face;  he  was  a  pre- 
cise man,  and  now  I  thought  he  looked  rather 
roughly  at  my  old  shooting- jacket.  But  I  let 
him  look,  and  scowled  at  him  a  little ;  for  I  re- 
membered that  he  had  feruled  me  once.  I 
thought  it  was  not  probable  that  he  would  ever 
do  it  again. 

There  was  a  bustling  little  lawyer  in  the 

233 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

village,  who  lived  in  a  large  house,  and  who 
was  the  great  man  of  that  town  and  country : 
he  had  scarce  changed  at  all;  and  he  stepped 
into  the  church  as  briskly  and  promptly  as  he 
did  ten  years  ago.  But  what  struck  me  most 
was  the  change  in  a  couple  of  pretty  little 
white-haired  girls  that  at  the  time  I  left  were 
of  that  uncertain  age  when  the  mother  lifts 
them  on  a  Sunday,  and  pounces  them  down 
one  after  the  other  upon  the  seat  of  the  pew ; — 
these  were  now  grown  into  blooming  young 
ladies.  And  they  swept  by  me  in  the  vestibule 
of  the  church,  with  a  flutter  of  robes  and  a  grace 
of  motion  that  fairly  made  my  heart  twitter  in 
my  bosom.  I  know  nothing  that  brings  home 
upon  a  man  so  quick  the  consciousness  of  in- 
creasing years,  as  to  find  the  little  prattling 
girls,  that  were  almost  babies  in  his  boyhood, 
become  dashing  ladies ;  and  to  find  those  whom 
he  used  to  look  on  patronizingly  and  compas- 
sionately— thinking  they  were  little  girls — 
grown  to  such  maturity  that  the  mere  rustle 
of  their  silk  dress  will  give  him  a  twinge,  and 
their  eyes,  if  he  looks  at  them,  make  him  un- 
_  accountably  shy. 

After  service  I  strolled  up  by  the  school- 
buildings;  I  traced  the  names  that  we  had  cut 
upon  the  fence ;  but  the  fence  had  grown  brown 

234 


NOON 

with  age,  and  was  nearly  rotted  away.  Upon 
the  beech-tree  in  the  hollow  behind  the  school, 
the  carvings  were  all  overgrown.  It  must  have 
been  vacation,  if  indeed  there  was  any  school 
at  all;  for  I  could  see  only  one  old  woman 
about  the  premises,  and  she  was  hanging  out 
a  dish-cloth  to  dry  in  the  sun.  I  passed  on  up 
the  hill,  beyond  the  buildings  where,  in  the 
boy-days,  we  built  stone  forts  with  bastions 
and  turrets;  but  the  farmers  had  put  bastions 
and  turrets  into  their  cobble-stone  walls.  At 
the  orchard-fence  I  stopped  and  looked — from 
force,  I  believe,  of  old  habit — to  see  if  any  one 
were  watching,  and  then  leaped  over,  and 
found  my  way  to  the  early  apple  tree ;  but  the 
fruit  had  gone  by.  It  seemed  very  daring  in 
me,  even  then,  to  walk  so  boldly  in  the  forbid- 
den ground. 

But  the  old  head-master,  who  forbade  it, 
was  dead;  and  Russell  and  Burgess,  and  I; 
know   not  how   many  others,   who  in  other 
times  were  culprits  with  me,  were  dead  too.  : 
When  I  passed  back  by  the  school,  I  lingered 
to  look  up  at  the  windows  of  that  corner- 
room  where  I  had  slept  the  sound,  healthful 
sleep  of  boyhood ;  and  where,  too,  I  had  passed 
many,  many  wakeful  hours,  thinking  of  the 
absent  Bella  and  of  my  home. 

235 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

How  small  seem  now  the  great  griefs 

of  boyhood!  Light,  floating  clouds  will  ob- 
scure the  sun  that  is  but  half  risen;  but  let 
him  be  up  midheaven,  and  the  cloud  that  then 
darkens  the  land  must  be  thick  and  heavy  in- 
deed. 

Was  not  such  a  cloud  over  me  now? 


COLLEGE 

SCHOOLMATES  slip  out  of  sight  and  know- 
ledge, and  are  forgotten ;  or  if  you  meet  them, 
they  bear  another  character;  the  boy  is  not 
there.  It  is  a  new  acquaintance  that  you  make, 
with  nothing  of  your  fellow  upon  the  benches 
but  the  name.  Though  the  eye  and  face  cleave 
to  your  memory,  and  you  meet  them  after- 
ward and  think  you  have  met  a  friend,  the 
voice  or  the  action  will  break  down  the  charm, 
and  you  find  only — another  man. 

But  with  your  classmates  in  that  later  school, 

where  form  and  character  were  both  nearer 

ripeness,  and  where  knowledge,  labored  for 

together,  bred  the  first  manly  sympathies,  it  is 

different.     And  as  you  meet  them  or  hear  of 

|  them,  the  thought  of  their  advance  makes  a 

';  measure  of  your  own, —  it  makes  a  measure 

*  of  the  Now. 

236 


NOON 

You  judge  of  your  happiness  by  theirs;  of 
your  progress  by  theirs ;  and  of  your  prospects 
by  theirs.  If  one  is  happy,  you  seek  to  trace 
out  the  way  by  which  he  has  wrought  his  hap- 
piness; you  consider  how  it  differs  from  your 
own ;  and  you  think  with  vain  regrets  how  you 
might  possibly  have  wrought  the  same,  but 
now  it  has  escaped.  If  another  has  won  some 
honorable  distinction,  you  fall  to  thinking  how 
the  man — your  old  equal,  as  you  thought,  upon 
the  college-benches — has  outrun  you.  It  pricks 
to  effort,  and  teaches  the  difference  between 
Now  and  Then.  Life  with  all  its  duties  and 
hopes  gathers  upon  your  Present  like  a  great 
weight,  or  like  a  storm  ready  to  burst.  It  is 
met  anew ;  it  pleads  more  strongly,  and  action, 
that  has  been  neglected,  rises  before  you,  a 
giant  of  remorse. 

Stop  not,  loiter  not,  look  not  backward,  if 
you  would  be  among  the  foremost.  The  great 
Now — so  quick,  so  broad,  so  fleeting — is 
yours;  in  an  hour  it  will  belong  to  the  Eter- 
nity of  the  Past.  The  temper  of  Life  is  to  be 
made  good  by  big,  honest  blows;  stop  striking 
and  you  will  do  nothing ;  strike  feebly,  and  you 
will  do  almost  as  little.  Success  rides  on  every 
hour;  grapple  it,  and  you  may  win;  but  with- 
out a  grapple  it  will  never  go  with  you.  Work 

237 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

is  the  weapon  of  honor,  and  who  lacks  the 
^weapon  will  never  triumph. 

There  were  some  seventy  of  us, — all  scat- 
tered now.  I  meet  one  here  and  there  at  wide 
distances  apart;  and  we  talk  together  of  old 
days,  and  of  our  present  work  and  life, — and 
separate.  Just  so  ships  at  sea,  in  murky 
weather,  will  shift  their  course  to  come  within 
hailing  distance,  and  compare  their  longitude, 
and — part.  One  I  have  met  wandering  in 
Southern  Italy  dreaming  as  I  was  dreaming, — 
over  the  tomb  of  Virgil  by  the  dark  grotto 'of 
Posilipo.  It  seemed  strange  to  talk  of  our  old 
readings  in  Tacitus  there  upon  classic  ground ; 
but  we  did ;  and  ran  on  to  talk  of  our  lives ; 
and  sitting  down  upon  the  promontory  of 
Baiae,  looking  off  upon  that  blue  sea,  as  clear 
as  the  classics,  we  told  each  other  our  respec- 
tive stories.  And  two  nights  after,  upon  the 
quay,  in  sight  of  Vesuvius,  which  shed  a  lurid 
glow  upon  the  sky,  that  was  reflected  from 
the  white  walls  of  the  Hotel  de  Russie,  and 
from  the  broad  lava  pavements,  we  parted, — 
he  to  wander  among  the  isles  of  the  ^gean, 
and  I  to  turn  northward. 

Another  time,  as  I  was  wandering  among 
those  mysterious  figures  that  crowd  the  foyer 
of  the  French  Opera  upon  a  night  of  the  masked 

238 


NOON 

ball,  I  saw  a  familiar  face;  I  followed  it  with 
my  eye,  until  I  became  convinced  of  the  i'den- 
tity  of  a  college  friend.  He  did  not  know  me, 
until  I  named  his  old  seat  upon  the  bench  of 
the  division-room,  and  the  hard-faced  Tutor 

G .  Then  we  talked  of  the  old  rivalries, 

and  Christmas  jollities,  and  of  this  and  that 
one,  whom  we  had  come  upon  in  our  wayward 
tracks,  while  the  black-robed  grisettes  stared 
at  us  through  their  velvet  masks;  nor  did  we 
tire  of  comparing  the  old  memories  with  the 
unearthly  gayety  of  the  scene  about  us,  until 
daylight  broke. 

In  a  quiet  mountain  town  of  New  England 
I  came  not  long  since  upon  another;  he  was 
hale  and  hearty  and  pushing  his  lawyer  work 
with  just  the  same  nervous  energy  with  which 
he  used  to  recite  a  theorem  of  Euclid.  He  was 
father,  too,  of  a  couple  of  stout,  curly-pated 
boys;  and  his  good  woman,  as  he  called  her, 
appeared  a  sensible,  honest,  good-natured  lady. 
I  must  say  that  I  envied  him  his  wife,  much 
more  that  I  had  envied  my  companion  of  the 
opera — his  domino. 

I  happened  only  a  little  while  ago  to  drop 
into  the  college  chapel  of  a  Sunday.  There 
were  the  same  hard  oak  benches  below,  and 
the  lucky  fellows  who  enjoyed  a  corner  seat 

239 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

were  leaning  back  upon  the  rail,  after  the  old 
fashion.  The  tutors  were  perched  up  in  their 
side-boxes,  looking  as  prim  and  serious  and 
important  as  ever.  The^same  stout  Doctor 
read  the  hymn  in  the  same  rhythmical  way; 
and  he  prayed  the  same  prayer,  for  (I  thought) 
the  same  old  sort  of  sinners.  As  I  shut  my 
eyes  to  listen,  it  seemed  as  if  the  intermediate 
years  had  all  gone  out;  and  that  I  was  on  my 
own  pew-bench,  and  thinking  out  those  little 
schemes  for  excuses,  or  for  effort,  which  were 
to  relieve  me,  or  to  advance  me,  in  my  college 
world. 

There  was  a  pleasure — like  the  pleasure  of 
dreaming  about  forgotten  joys — in  listening 
to  the  Doctor's  sermon :  he  began  in  the  same 
half  embarrassed,  half  awkward  way;  and 
fumbled  at  his  Bible-leaves,  and  the  poor 
pinched  cushion,  as  he  did  long  before.  But 
as  he  went  on  with  his  rusty  and  polemic  vigor, 
the  poetry  within  him  would  now  and  then 
warm  his  soul  into  a  burst  of  fervid  eloquence, 
and  his  face  would  glow,  and  his  hand  tremble, 
and  the  cushion  and  the  Bible-leaves  be  all  for- 
got, in  the  glow  of  his  thought,  until  with  a 
half  cough,  and  a  pinch  at  the  cushion,  he  fell 
back  into  his  strong  but  tread-mill  argumen- 
tation. 

In  the  corner  above  was  the  stately,  white- 

240 


NOON 

haired  professor,  wearing  the  old  dignity  of 
carriage,  and  a  smile  as  bland  as  if  the  years 
had  all  been  playthings;  and  had  I  seen  him 
in  his  lecture-room,  I  dare  say  I  should  have 
found  the  same  suavity  of  address,  the  same 
marvellous  currency  of  talk,  and  the  same  in- 
finite composure  over  the  exploding  retorts.  .  1 

Near  him  was  the  silver-haired  old  gentle- 
man,— with  a  very  astute  expression, — who 
used  to  have  an  odd  habit  of  tightening  his 
cloak  about  his  nether  limbs.  I  could  not  see 
that  his  eye  was  any  the  less  bright;  nor  did 
he  seem  less  eager  to  catch  at  the  handle  of 
some  witticism,  or  bit  of  satire,  to  the  poor 
student's  cost.  I  remembered  my  old  awe  of 
him,  I  must  say,  with  something  of  a  grudge; 
but  I  had  got  fairly  over  it  now.  There  are 
sharper  griefs  in  life  than  a  professor's  talk. 

Farther  on,  I  saw  the  long-faced,  dark- 
haired  man,  who  looked  as  if  he  were  always 
near  some  explosive  electric  battery,  or  upon 
an  insulated  stool.  He  was,  I  believe,  a  man  of 
fine  feelings ;  but  he  had  a  way  of  reducing  all 
action  to  dry,  hard,  mathematical  system,  with 
very  little  poetry  about  it.  I  know  there  was 
not  much  poetry  in  his  problems  in  physics, 
and  still  less  in  his  half-yearly  examinations. 
But  I  do  not  dread  them  now. 

Over  opposite,  I  was  glad  to  see  still  the 

241 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

i  aged  head  of  the  kind  and  generous  old  man, 

;  who,  in  my  day,  presided  over  the  college,  and 
who  carried  with  him  the  affections  of  each 
succeeding  class,— added  to  their  respect  for 
his  learning.  This  seems  a  higher  triumph  to 

f  me  now  than  it  seemed  then.  A  strong  mind, 
or  a  cultivated  mind  may  challenge  respect; 
but  there  is  needed  a  noble  one  to  win  affection. 
A  new  man  now  filled  his  place  in  the  pres- 
ident's seat;  but  he  was  one  whom  I  had 
known,  and  been  proud  to  know.  His  figure 
was  bent  and  thin, — the  very  figure  that  an 
old  Flemish  master  would  have  chosen  for  a 
scholar.  His  eye  had  a  kind  of  piercing  lustre, 
as  if  it  had  long  been  fixed  on  books ;  and  his 
expression — when  unrelieved  by  his  affable 
smile — was  that  of  hard  midnight  toil.  With 
all  his  polish  of  mind,  he  was  a  gentleman  at 
heart,  and  treated  us  always  with  a  manly 
courtesy  that  is  not  forgotten. 

But  of  all  the  faces  that  used  to  be  ranged 
below, — four  hundred  men  and  boys, — there 
was  not  one  with  whom  to  join  hands,  and 

>  live  back  again.  Their  griefs,  joys,  and  toil 
were  chaining  them  to  their  respective  labors 
of  life.  Each  one  in  his  thought,  coursing 
over  a  world  as  wide  as  my  own, — how  many 
thousand  worlds  of  thought  upon  this  one 
world  of  ours! 

242 


NOON 

I  stepped  dreamily  through  the  corridors  of 
the  old  Athenaeum,  thinking  of  that  first  "fear- 
ful entrance  when  the  faces  were  new,  and  the 
stern  tutor  was  strange,  and  the  prolix  Livy 
so  hard.  I  went  up  at  night  and  strolled  around 
the  buildings  when  the  lights  were  blazing 
from  all  the  windows,  and  the  students  busy 
with  their  tasks, — plain  tasks,  and  easy  tasks, 
because  they  are  certain  tasks.  Happy  fel- 
lows, thought  I,  who  have  only  to  do  what  is 
set  before  you  to  be  done!  But  the  time  is 
coming,  and  very  fast,  when  you  must  not  only 
do,  but  know  what  to  do.  The  time  is  coming 
when  in  place  of  your  one  master  you  will 
have  a  thousand  masters, — masters  of  duty,  of 
business,  of  pleasure,  and  of  grief, — giving 
you  harder  lessons,  each  one  of  them  than  any 
of  your  Fluxions. 

MORNING  will  pass,  and  the  NOON  will  come 
— hot  and  scorching.  J, 

THE  PACKET  OF  BELLA 

I  HAVE  not  forgotten  that  packet  of  Bella;  I 
did  not  once  forget  it.  And  when  I  saw  Lilly, 
— and  now  the  grown-up  Lilly, — happy  in  her 
household,  and — blithe  as  when  she  was  a 
maiden,  she  gave  it  to  me.  She  told  me  too 
of  Bella's  illness,  and  of  her  suffering,  and  of 

243 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

her  manner,  when  she  put  the  little  packet  in 
her  hand  "for  Cousin  Paul."  But  this  I  will 
not  repeat, — I  cannot. 

*  I  know  not  why  it  was,  but  I  shuddered  at 
the  mention  of  her  name.  There  are  some  who 
will  talk  at  table,  and  in  their  gossip,  of  dead 
friends;  I  wonder  how  they  do  it?  For  my- 
Q  self,  when  the  grave  has  closed  its  gates  on  the 
^  faces  of  those  I  love,  however  busy  my  mourn- 
ful thought  may  be,  the  tongue  is  silent.  I 
cannot  name  their  names ;  it  shocks  me  to  hear 
them  named.  It  seems  like  tearing  open  half- 
healed  wounds,  and  disturbing  with  harsh, 
worldly  noise  the  sweet  sleep  of  Death. 

I  Ipved  Bella.  I  know  not  how  I  loved  her, 
whether  as  a  lover,  or  as  a  husband  loves  a 
j^wife;  I  only  know  this, — I  always  loved  her. 
She  was  so  gentle,  so  beautiful,  so  confiding, 
that  I  never  once  thought  but  that  the  whole 
world  loved  her  as  well  as  I.  There  was  only 
one  thing  I  never  told  to  Bella:  I  would  tell 
her  of  all  my  grief,  and  of  all  my  joys ;  I  would 
tell  her  my  hopes,  my  ambitious  dreams,  my 
disappointments,  my  anger,  and  my  dislikes; 
but  I  never  told  her  how  much  I  loved  her. 

I  do  not  know  why,  unless  I  knew  that  it 
was  needless.  But  I  should  as  soon  have 
thought  of  telling  Bella,  on  some  winter's  day, 

244 


NOON 

"Bella,  it  is  winter ;" — or  of  whispering  to  her 
on  some  balmy  day  of  August,  "Bella,  it  is 
summer;" — as  of  telling  her,  after  she  had 
grown  to  girlhood,  "Bella,  I  love  you  1" 

I  had  received  one  letter  from  her  in  the  old 
countries ;  it  was  a  sweet  letter,  in  which  she 
told  me  all  that  she  had  been  doing,  and  how 
she  had  thought  of  me  when  she  rambled  over 
the  woods  where  we  had  rambled  together. 
She  had  written  two  or  three  other  letters, 
Lilly  told  me,  but  they  had  never  reached  me. 
I  had  told  her,  too,  of  all  that  made  my  happi- 
ness; I  wrote  her  about  the  charming  young 
person  I  had  known  on  shipboard,  and  how  I 
met  her  afterward,  and  what  a  happy  time  we 
passed  down  in  Devon.  I  even  told  her  of  the 
strange  dream  I  had,  in  which  Isabel  seemed 
to  be  in  England,  and  to  turn  away  from  me 
sadly  because  I  called  her  "Carry." 

I  also  told  her  of  all  I  saw  in  that  great 
world  of  Paris,  writing  as  I  would  write  to  a 
sister ;  and  I  told  her,  too,  of  the  sweet  Roman 
girl,  Enrica, — of  her  brown  hair,  and  of  her 
rich  eyes,  and  of  her  pretty  Carnival  dresses. 
And  when  I  missed  letter  after  letter,  I  told  her 
that  she  must  still  write  her  letters,  or  some  little 
journal,  and  read  it  to  me  when  I  came  back. 
I  thought  how  pleasant  it  would  be  to  sit  under 

245 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

the  trees  by  her  father's  house,  and  listen  to 
her  tender  voice  going  through  that  record  of 
her  thoughts  and  fears.  Alas,  how  our  hopes 
betray  us ! 

It  began  almost  like  a  diary  about  the  time 
that  her  father  fell  sick.  "It  is,"  said  she  to 
Lilly,  when  she  gave  it  to  her,  "what  I  would 
have  said  to  Cousin  Paul,  if  he  had  been  here." 

It  begins :"...!  have  come  back  now  to 
father's  house;  I  could  not  leave  him  alone, 
for  they  told  me  he  was  ill.  I  found  him  not 
well;  he  was  very  glad  to  see  me,  and  kissed 
me  so  tenderly  that  I  am  sure,  Cousin  Paul, 
you  would  not  have  said,  as  you  used  to  say, 
that  he  was  a  cold  man.  I  sometimes  read  to 
him  sitting  in  the  deep  library-window,  (you 
remember  it,)  where  we  used  to  nestle  out  of 
his  sight  at  dusk.  He  cannot  read  any  more. 

"I  would  give  anything  to  see  the  little 
Carry  you  speak  of;  but  you  did  not  describe 
her  to  me  so  fully  as  I  would  like ;  will  you  not 
tell  me  if  she  has  dark  hair,  or  light ;  or  if  her 
eyes  are  blue,  or  dark  like  mine  ?  Is  she  good ; 
did  she  not  make  ugly  speeches,  or  grow  peev- 
ish, in  those  long  days  upon  the  ocean?  How 
I  would  have  liked  to  have  been  with  you  on 
those  clear  starlit  nights,  looking  off  upon 

246 


NOON 

the  water!  But  then  I  think  that  you  would 
not  have  wished  me  there,  and  that  you  did' not 
once  think  of  me  even.  This  makes  me  sad; 
yet  I  know  not  why  it  should  for  I  always 
liked  you  best  when  you  were  happy ;  and  I  am 
sure  you  must  have  been  happy  then.  You  say 
you  shall  never  see  her  after  you  have  left  the 
ship:  you  must  not  think  so,  Cousin  Paul;  if 
she  is  so  beautiful  and  fond  as  you  tell  me, 
your  own  heart  will  lead  you  in  her  way  some 
time  again;  I  feel  almost  sure  of  it. 

"Father  is  getting  more  and  more 

feeble,  and  wandering  in  his  mind ;  this  is  very 
dreadful;  he  calls  me  sometimes  by  my  moth-'- 
er's  name;  and  when  I  say,  'It  is  Isabel/  hej 
says,  'What  Isabel  ?'  and  treats  me  as  if  I  were 
a  stranger.     The  physician  shakes  his  head 
when  I  ask  him  of  father.     Oh,  Paul!  if  he ": 
should  die,  what  could  I  do  ?    I  should  die  too ; 
I  know  I  should.    Who  would  there  be  to  care 
for  me?    Lilly  is  married,  and  Ben  is  far  off, 
and  you,  Paul,  whom  I  love  better  than  either, 
are  a  long  way  from  me.     But  God  is  good, 
and  he  will  spare  my  father. 

"So  you  have  seen  again  your 

little  Carry.     I  told  you  it  would  be  so.    You 

247 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

tell  me  how  accidental  it  was.  Ah,  Paul,  Paul, 
you  rogue!  honest  as  you  are,  I  half  doubt 
you  there.  I  like  your  description  of  her  too, 
— dark  eyes  like  mine  you  say,  'almost  as 
pretty.'  Well,  Paul,  I  will  forgive  you  that; 
it  is  only  a  white  lie.  You  know  they  must  be 
a  great  deal  prettier  than  mine,  or  you  would 
never  have  stayed  a  whole  fortnight  in  an  old 
farmer's  house  far  down  in  Devon.  I  wish  I 
could  see  her;  I  wish  she  were  here  with  you 
now,  for  it  is  midsummer,  and  the  trees  and 
flowers  were  never  prettier.  But  I  am  all 
alone ;  father  is  too  ill  to  go  out  at  all.  I  fear 
now  very  much  that  he  will  never  go  out  again. 
Lilly  was  here  yesterday,  but  he  did  not  know 
her.  She  read  me  your  last  letter;  it  was  not 
so  long  as  mine.  You  are  very,  very  good  to 
me,  Paul. 

"For  a  long  time  I  have  written 

nothing;  my  father  has  been  very  ill,  and  the 
old  housekeeper  has  been  sick  too,  and  father 
would  have  no  one  but  me  near  him.  He  can- 
not live  long.  I  feel  sadly,  miserably ;  you  will 
not  know  me  when  you  come  home;  your 
'pretty  Bella/  as  you  used  to  call  me,  will  have 
lost  all  her  beauty.  But  perhaps  you  will  not 
care  for  that,  for  you  tell  me  you  have  found 

248 


NOON 

one  prettier  than  ever.  I  do  not  know,  Cousin 
Paul,  but  it  is  because  I  am  so  sad  and  selfish, 
— for  sorrow  is  selfish, — but  I  do  not  like  your 
raptures  about  the  Roman  girl.  Be  careful, 
Paul.  I  know  your  heart;  it  is  quick  and 
sensitive ;  and  I  dare  say  she  is  pretty,  and  has 
beautiful  eyes;  for  they  tell  me  all  the  Italian 
girls  have  soft  eyes. 

"But  Italy  is  far  away,  Paul;  I  can  never  ' 
see  Enrica;  she  will  never  come  here.  No,  no; 
remember  Devon;  I  feel  as  if  Carry  were  a 
sister  now ;  I  cannot  feel  so  of  the  Roman  girl ; 
I  do  not  want  to  feel  so.  You  will  say  this  is 
harsh;  and  I  am  afraid  you  will  not  like  me 
so  well  for  it,  but  I  cannot  help  saying  it.  I 
love  you  too  well,  Cousin  Paul,  not  to  say  it. 

"It  is  all  over!     Indeed,  Paul,  I 

am  very  desolate!  The  golden  bowl  is 
broken;'  my  poor  father  has  gone  to  his  last 
home.  I  was  expecting  it;  but  how  can  we 
expect  that  fearful  comer — Death?  He  had 
been  for  a  long  time  so  feeble  that  he  could 
scarce  speak  at  all;  he  sat  for  hours  in  his 
chair,  looking  upon  the  fire,  or  looking  out  at 
the  window.  He  would  hardly  notice  me  when 
I  came  to  change  his  pillows,  or  to  smooth 
them  for  his  head.  But  before  he  died  he  knew  ^ 

249 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

me  as  well  as  ever.  'Isabel/  he  said,  'you  have 
^  been  a  good  daughter ;  God  will  reward  you !' 
and  he  kissed  me  so  tenderly,  and  looked  after 
me  so  anxiously,  with  such  intelligence  in  his 
look,  that  I  thought  perhaps  he  would  revive 
again.  In  the  evening  he  asked  me  for  one  of 
his  books  that  he  loved  very  much.  'Father/ 
said  I,  'you  cannot  read;  it  is  almost  dark/ 

"  'Oh,  yes/  said  he;  'Isabel,  I  can  read  now/ 
And  I  brought  it;  he  kept  my  hand  a  long 
\  while,  then  he  opened  the  book ;  it  was  a  book 
•about  death. 

"I  brought  a  candle,  for  I  knew  he  could  not 
read  without. 

"  'Isabel,  dear/  said  he,  'put  the  candle  a 
little  nearer/  But  it  was  close  beside  him  even 
then. 

"  'A  little  nearer,  Isabel/  repeated  he,  and , 
his  voice  was  very  faint,  and  he  grasped  my 
hand  hard. 

"There  was  no  need  to  do  it,  for  my  poor 
father  was  dead.  Oh!  Paul,  pity  me.  I  do 
not  know  but  I  am  crazed.  It  does  not  seem 
the  same  world  it  was.  And  the  house  and  the 
trees — oh,  they  are  very  dismal ! 

"I  wish  you  would  come  home,  Cousin  Paul ; 
life  would  not  be  so  very,  very  blank  as  it  is 
now.  Lilly  is  kind ;  I  thank  her  from  my  heart. 
But  it  is  not  her  father  who  is  dead. 

250 


NOON 

"I  am  calmer  now;  I  am  staying 

with  Lilly.  The  world  seems  smaller  than  it 
did;  but  heaven  seems  a  great  deal  larger; 
there  is  a  place  for  us  all  there,  Paul,  if  we 
only  seek  it.  They  tell  me  you  are  coming 
home;  I  am  glad.  You  will  not  like,  perhaps, 
to  come  away  from  that  pretty  Enrica  you 
speak  of;  but  do  so,  Paul.  It  seems  to  me 
that  I  see  clearer  than  I  did,  and  I  talk  bolder. 
The  girlish  Isabel  you  will  not  find,  for  I  am 
much  older,  and  my  air  is  more  grave ;  and  this 
suffering  has  made  me  feeble,  very  feeble. 

"It  is  not  easy  for  me  to  write; 

but  I  must  tell  you  that  I  have  just  found  out 
who  your  Carry  is.  Years  ago,  when  you 
were  away  from  home,  I  was  at  school  with 
her.  We  were  always  together.  I  wonder  I 
could  not  have  found  her  out  from  your  descrip- 
tion; but  I  did  not  even  suspect  it.  She  is  a 
dear  girl,  and  is  worthy  of  all  your  love.  I 
have  seen  her  once  since  you  have  met  her; 
we  talked  of  you.  She  spoke  kindly,  very 
kindly;  more  than  this  I  cannot  tell  you,  for 
I  do  not  know  more.  Ah,  Paul,  may  you  be 
happy:  I  feel  as  if  I  had  but  a  little  while  to 
live. 


"It  is  even  so,  my  dear  Cousin 
251 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

Paul:  I  shall  write  but  little  more;  my  hand 
trembles  now.  But  I  am  ready.  It  is  a  glori- 
ous world  beyond  this;  I  know  it  is.  And 
there  we  shall  meet.  I  did  hope  to  see  you 
once  again,  and  to  hear  your  voice  speaking  to 
me  as  you  used  to  speak.  But  I  shall  not. 
Life  is  too  frail  with  me.  I  seem  to  live  wholly 
now  in  the  world  where  I  am  going;  there  is 
my  mother,  and  my  father,  and  my  little  broth- 
er; we  shall  meet,  I  know  we  shall  meet. 

"The   last,    Paul.      Never   again 

in  this  world !  I  am  happy,  very  happy.  You 
will  come  to  me.  I  can  write  no  more.  May 
good  angels  guard  you,  and  bring  you  to 
heaven !" 

Shall  I  go  on? 

But  the  toils  of  life  are  upon  me.  Private 
griefs  do  not  break  the  force  and  the  weight 
of  the  great  Present.  A  life — at  best  the  half 
of  it — is  before  me.  It  is  to  be  wrought  out 
with  nerve  and  work.  And  blessed  be  God ! 
there  are  gleams  of  sunlight  upon  it.  That 
?  sweet  Carry — doubly  dear  to  me  now  that  she 
is  joined  with  my  sorrow  for  the  lost  Isabel — 
shall  be  sought  for. 

And  with  her  sweet  image  floating  before 
me,  the  NOON  wanes,  and  the  shadows  of 
EVENING  lengthen  upon  the  land. 

252 


m 

EVENING 

THE  Future  is  a  great  land :  how  the  lights  and 
the  shadows  throng  over  it — bright  and  dark, 
slow  and  swift! 

Pride  and  Ambition  build  up  great  castles 
on  its  plains, — great  monuments  on  the  moun- 
tains, that  reach  heavenward,  and  dip  their 
tops  in  the  blue  of  Eternity.  Then  comes  an 
earthquake — the  earthquake  of  disappointment, 
of  distrust,  or  of  inaction — and  lays  them  low. 
Gaping  desolation  widens  its  breaches  every- 
where; the  eye  is  full  of  them,  and  can  see 
nothing  beside.  By-and-by  the  sun  peeps  forth 
— as  now  from  behind  yonder  cloud — and  re- 
animates the  soul. 

Fame  beckons,  sitting  high  in  the  heavens; 
and  joy  lends  a  halo  to  the  vision.  A  thou- 
sand resolves  stir  your  heart ;  your  hand  is  hot 
and  feverish  for  action ;  your  brain  works  mad- 
ly, and  you  snatch  here,  and  you  snatch  there, 
in  the  convulsive  throes  of  your  delirium. 
Perhaps  you  see  some  earnest,  careful  plodder, 
once  far  behind  you,  now  toiling  slowly  but 
surely  over  the  plain  of  life,  until  he  seems 
near  to  grasping  those  brilliant  phantoms 

253 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

which  dance  along  the  horizon  of  the  future; 
and  the  sight  stirs  your  soul  to  frenzy,  and 
you  bound  on  after  him  with  the  madness  of  a 
fever  in  your  veins.  But  it  was  by  no  such 
action  that  the  fortunate  toiler  has  won  his 
progress.  His  hand  is  steady;  his  brain  is 
cool ;  his  eye  is  fixed  and  sure. 

The  Future  is  a  great  land;  a  man  cannot 
go  round  it  in  a  day ;  he  cannot  measure  it  with 
a  bound;  he  cannot  bind  its  harvest  into  a 
single  sheaf.  It  is  wider  than  the  vision,  and 
has  no  end. 

Yet  always,  day  by  day,  hour  by  hour,  sec- 
ond by  second,  the  hard  Present  is  elbowing 
us  off  into  that  great  land  of  the  Future.  Our 
souls  indeed  wander  to  it  as  to  a  home-land; 
they  run  beyond  time  and  space,  beyond  planets 
and  suns,  beyond  far-off  suns  and  comets,  un- 
til, like  blind  flies,  they  are  lost  in  the  blaze  of 
immensity,  and  can  only  grope  their  way  back 
to  our  earth  and  our  time  by  the  cunning  of 
instinct. 

Cut  out  the  Future,  even  that  little  Future 
which  is  the  Evening  of  our  life,  and  what  a 
fall  into  vacuity !  Forbid  those  earnest  forays 
over  the  borders  of  Now,  and  on  what  spoils 
would  the  soul  live? 

For  myself,  I  delight  to  wander  there,  and 

254 


EVENING 

to  weave  every  day  the  passing  life  into  the 
coming  life — so  closely  that  I  may  be  uncon- 
scious of  the  joining.  And  if  so  be  that  I  am 
able,  I  would  make  the  whole  piece  bear  fair 
proportions  and  just  figures,  like  those  tap- 
estries on  which  nuns  work  by  inches,  and 
finish  with  their  lives:  or  like  those  grand 
frescos  which  poet-artists  have  wrought  on 
the  vaults  of  old  cathedrals,  gaunt  and  colos- 
sal,— appearing  mere  daubs  of  carmine  and 
azure,  as  they  lay  upon  their  backs,  working 
out  a  hand's-breadth  at  a  time, — but  when 
complete,  showing — symmetrical  and  glorious. 

But  not  alone  does  the  soul  wander  to  those 
glittering  heights  where  Fame  sits,  with 
plumes  waving  in  zephyrs  of  applause;  there 
belong  to  it  other  appetites,  which  range  wide 
and  constantly  over  the  broad  Future-land. 
We  are  not  merely  working,  intellectual  ma- 
chines, but  social  puzzles,  whose  solution  is 
the  work  of  a  life.  Much  as  hope  may  lean  to-  "I 
ward  the  intoxicating  joy  of  distinction,  there 
is  another  leaning  in  the  soul,  deeper  and 
stronger,  toward  those  pleasures  which  the 
heart  pants  for,  and  in  whose  atmosphere  the 
affections  bloom  and  ripen. 

The  first  may  indeed  be  uppermost ;  it  may  j. 
be  noisiest;  it  may  drown  with  the  clamor  of 

255 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

mid-day  the  nicer  sympathies.  But  all  our  day 
is  not  mid-day;  and  all  our  life  is  not  noise. 
Silence  is  as  strong  as  the  soul;  and  there  is 
no  tempest  so  wild  with  blasts  but  has  a  wilder 

;  lull.  There  lies  in  the  depth  of  every  man's 
soul  a  mine  of  affection,  which  from  time  to 
time  will  burn  with  the  seething  heat  of  a  vol- 
cano, and  heave  up  lava-like  monuments 
through  all  the  cold  strata  of  his  commoner 
nature. 

One  may  hide  his  warmer  feelings ;  he  may 
paint  them  dimly;  he  may  crowd  them  out  of 
his  sailing-chart,  where  he  only  sets  down  the 
harbors  for  traffic;  yet  in  his  secret  heart  he 
will  map  out  upon  the  great  country  of  the  Fu- 
ture fairy  islands  of  love  and  of  joy.  There 
he  will  be  sure  to  wander,  when  his  soul  is  lost 
in  those  quiet  and  hallowed  hopes  which  take 
hold  on  heaven. 

Love  only  unlocks  the  door  upon  that  Fu- 
turity  where  the  isles  of  the  blessed  lie  like 

j  stars.  Affection  is  the  stepping-stone  to  God. 
The  heart  is  our  only  measure  of  infinitude. 
The  mind  tires  with  greatness ;  the  heart — 
never.  Thought  is  worried  and  weakened  in 
its  flight  through  the  immensity  of  space;  but 
Love  soars  around  the  throne  of  the  Highest 
with  added  blessing  and  strength. 

256 


EVENING 

I  know  not  how  it  may  be  with  others,  but 
with  me  the  heart  is  a  readier  and  quieker 
builder  of  those  fabrics  which  strew  the  great 
country  of  the  Future  than  the  mind.  They 
may  not,  indeed,  rise  so  high  as  the  dizzy  pin- 
nacles that  ambition  loves  to  rear ;  but  they  lie 
like  fragrant  islands  in  a  sea  whose  ripple  is  a 
continuous  melody. 

And  as  I  muse  now,  looking  toward  the 
Evening  which  is  already  begun, — tossed  as 
I  am  with  the  toils  of  the  Past,  and  bewildered 
with  the  vexations  of  the  Present, — my  affec-"' 
tions  are  the  architect  that  build  up  the  future 
refuge.  And  in  fancy  at  least  I  will  build  it 
boldly;  saddened  it  may  be  by  the  chance 
shadows  of  evening;  but  through  all  I  will 
hope  for  a  sunset,  when  the  day  ends,  glorious 
with  crimson  and  gold. 

CARRY 

I  SAID  that,  harsh  and  hot  as  was  the  Present, 
there  were  joyous  gleams  of  light  playing  over 
the  Future.     How  else  could  it  be  when  that 
fair  being  whom  I  met  first  upon  the  wastes 
of  ocean,  and  whose  name  even  is  hallowed  • 
by  the  dying  words  of  Isabel,  is  living  in  the  •• 
same  world  with  me?    Amid  all  the  perplexi- 

257 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

ties  that  haunt  me  as  I  wander  from  the  pres- 
ent to  the  future,  the  thought  of  her  image, 
of  her  smile,  of  her  last  kind  adieu,  throws  a 
dash  of  sunlight  upon  my  path. 

And  yet  why?  Is  it  not  very  idle?  Years 
have  passed  since  I  have  seen  her;  I  do  not 
even  know  where  she  may  be.  What  is  she  to 
me? 

My  heart  whispers,  "Very  much!" — but  I 
do  not  listen  to  that  in  my  prouder  moods. 
She  is  a  woman,  a  beautiful  woman  indeed, 
whom  I  have  known  once — pleasantly  known ; 
she  is  living,  but  she  will  die,  or  she  will 
marry :  I  shall  hear  of  it  by-and-by,  and  sigh 
perhaps, — nothing  more.  Life  is  earnest  around 
me,  there  is  no  time  to  delve  in  the  past,  for 
bright  things  to  shed  radiance  on  the  future. 

I  will  forget  the  sweet  girl  who  was  with  me 
upon  the  ocean,  and  think  she  is  dead.  This 
manly  soul  is  strong,  if  we  would  but  think  so ; 
it  can  make  a  puppet  of  griefs,  and  take  down 
and  set  up  at  will  the  symbols  of  its  hope. 

— But  no,  I  cannot;  the  more  I  think  thus, 
the  less  I  really  think  thus.  A  single  smile  of 
that  frail  girl — when  I  recall  it — mocks  all  my 
proud  purposes,  as  if  without  her  my  purposes 
were  nothing. 

Pshaw !  I  say,  it  is  idle ;  and  I  bury  my 

258 


EVENING 

thought  in  books,  and  in  long  hours  of  toil; 
but  as  the  hours  lengthen,  and  my  head  sinks 
with  fatigue,  and  the  shadows  of  evening  play 
around  me,  there  comes  again  that  sweet  vi- 
sion, saying  with  tender  mockery,  "Is  it  idle?" 
And  I  am  helpless,  and  am  led  away  hopefully 
and  joyfully  toward  the  golden  gates  which 
open  on  the  Future. 

But  this  is  only  in  those  silent  hours  when 
the  man  is  alone  and  away  from  his  working 
thoughts.  At  mid-day,  or  in  the  rusfi  of  the 
world,  he  puts  hard  armor  on,  that  reflects  all 
the  light  of  such  joyous  fancies.  He  is  cold 
and  careless,  and  ready  for  suffering  and  for 
fight. 

One  day  I  am  travelling.  I  am  absorbed  in 
some  present  cares,  thinking  out  some  plan 
which  is  to  make  easier  or  more  successful  the 
voyage  of  life.  I  glance  upon  the  passing 
scenery,  and  upon  new  faces,  with  that  careless 
indifference  which  grows  upon  a  man  with 
years,  and  above  all  with  travel.  There  is  no 
wife  to  enlist  your  sympathies,  no  children  to 
sport  with;  my  friends  are  few  and  scattered, 
and  are  working  out  fairly  what  is  before 
them  to  do.  Lilly  is  living  here,  and  Ben  is 
living  there;  their  letters  are  cheerful,  con- 
tented letters,  and  they  wish  me  well.  Griefs 

259 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

even  have  grown  light  with  wearing ;  and  I  am 

just  in  that  careless  humor  as  if  I  said,  "Jog 

'  on,  old  world, — jog  on!     And  the  end  will 

come    along   soon,    and    we    shall   get — poor 

devils  that  we  are — just  what  we  deserve." 

i      But  on  a  sudden  my  eyes  rest  on  a  figure 

I  that  I  think  I  know.     Now  the  indifference 

flies  like  a  mist ;  and  my  heart  throbs,  and  the 

old  visions  come  up.     I  watch  her,  as  if  there 

were  nothing  else  to  be  seen.     The  form  is 

hers;  the  grace  is  hers;  the  simple  dress, — so 

neat,  so  tasteful, — that  is  hers  too.     She  half 

turns  her  head :  it  is  the  face  that  I  saw  under 

the  velvet  cap  in  the  Park  of  Devon. 

I  do  not  rush  forward ;  I  sit  as  if  I  were  in 
a  trance.  I  watch  her  every  action, — the  kind 
attentions  to  her  mother,  who  sits  beside  her, 
— her  naive  exclamations  as  we  pass  some 
point  of  surpassing  beauty.  It  seems  as  if  a 
new  world  were  opening  to  me;  yet  I  cannot 
tell  why.  I  keep  my  place,  and  think,  and 
gaze.  I  tear  the  paper  I  hold  in  my  hand  into 
shreds.  I  play  with  my  watch-chain,  and  twist 
the  seal  until  it  is  near  breaking.  I  take  out 
my  watch,  look  at  it,  and  put  it  back;  yet  I 
cannot  tell  the  hour. 

It  is  she,  I  murmur ;  I  know  it  is  Carry ! 

But  when  they  rise  to  leave,  my  lethargy  is 

260 


EVENING 

broken ;  yet  it  is  with  a  trembling  hesitation — 
a  faltering  as  it  were  between  the  present  life 
and  the  future — that  I  approach.  She  knows 
me  on  the  instant,  and  greets  me  kindly;  as 
Bella  wrote — very  kindly.  Yet  she  shows  a 
slight  embarrassment,  a  sweet  embarrassment, 
that  I  treasure  in  my  heart  more  closely  even 
than  the  greeting.  I  change  my  course,  and 
travel  with  them;  now  we  talk  of  the  old 
scenes,  and  two  hours  seem  to  have  made  with 
me  the  difference  of  half  a  lifetime. 

It  is  five  years  since  I  parted  with  her,  never 
hoping  to  meet  again.  She  was  then  a  frail 
girl;  she  is  now  just  rounding  into  woman- 
hood. Her  eyes  are  dark  and  deep  as  ever; 
the  lashes  that  fringe  them  seem  to  me  even 
longer  than  they  were.  Her  color  is  as  rich, 
her  forehead  as  fair,  her  smile  as  sweet,  as 
they  were  before ;  only  a  little  tinge  of  sadness 
floats  upon  her  eye,  like  the  haze  upon  a  sum- 
mer landscape.  I  grow  bold  to  look  upon  her, 
and  timid  with  looking.  We  talk  of  Bella : 
she  speaks  in  a  soft,  low  voice,  and  the  shade 
of  sadness  on  her  face  gathers  as  when  a  sum- 
mer mist  obscures  the  sun.  I  talk  in  mono- 
syllables ;  I  can  command  no  other.  And  there 
is  a  look  of  sympathy  in  her  eye,  when  I  speak 
thus,  that  binds  my  soul  to  her  as  no  smiles 

261 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

(could  do.  What  can  draw  the  heart  into  the 
fulness  of  love  so  quick  as  sympathy? 

But  this  passes;  we  must  part:  she  for  her 
home,  and  I  for  that  broad  home  that  has  been 
mine  so  long — the  world.  It  seems  broader  to 
me  than  ever,  and  colder  than  ever,  and  less  to 
be  wished  for  than  ever.  A  new  book  of  hope 
is  sprung  wide  open  in  my  life:  a  hope  of 
home! 

We  are  to  meet  at  some  time,  not  far  off,  in 
the  city  where  I  am  living.  I  look  forward  to 
that  time  as  at  school  I  used  to  look  for  vaca- 
tion ;  it  is  a  point  d'appui  for  hope,  for  thought, 
and  for  countless  journey  ings  into  the  open- 
ing future.  Never  did  I  keep  the  dates  better, 
never  count  the  days  more  carefully,  whether 
for  bonds  to  be  paid,  or  for  dividends  to  fall 
due. 

I  welcome  the  time,  and  it  passes  like  a 
dream.  I  am  near  her,  often  as  I  dare;  the 
hours  are  very  short  with  her,  and  very  long 
away.  She  receives  me  kindly — always  very 
kindly;  she  could  not  be  otherwise  than  kind. 
But  is  it  anything  more?  This  is  a  greedy 
nature  of  ours ;  and  when  sweet  kindness  flows 
upon  us,  we  want  more.  I  know  she  is  kind ; 
and  yet  in  place  of  being  grateful,  I  am  only 
covetous  of  an  excess  of  kindness. 

262 


EVENING 

She  does  not  mistake  my  feelings,  surely, — 
ah,  no, — trust  a  woman  for  that!  But  what 
have  I,  or  what  am  I,  to  ask  a  return  ?  She  is 
pure  and  gentle  as  an  angel;  and  I,  alas,  only 
a  private  soldier  in  our  world-fight  against  the 
Devil.  Sometimes,  in  moods  of  vanity,  I  call 
up  what  I  fondly  reckon  my  excellences  or 
deserts, — a  sorry,  pitiful  array,  that  makes  me 
shamefaced  when  I  meet  her.  And  in  an  in- 
stant I  banish  them  all.  And  I  think,  that  if 
I  were  called  upon  in  some  high  court  of  jus- 
tice to  say  why  I  should  claim  her  indulgence, 
or  her  love,  I  would  say  nothing  of  my  sturdy 
effort  to  beat  down  the  roughnesses  of  toil, — 
nothing  of  such  manliness  as  wears  a  calm 
front  amid  the  frowns  of  the  world, — nothing 
of  little  triumphs  in  the  every-day  fight  of  life ; 
but  only,  I  would  enter  the  simple  plea — this 
heart  is  hers. 

She  leaves ;  and  I  have  said  nothing  of  what 
was  seething  within  me :  how  I  curse  my  folly ! 
She  is  gone,  and  never  perhaps  will  return. 
I  recall  in  despair  her  last  kind  glance.  The 
world  seems  blank  to  me.  She  does  not  know, 
perhaps  she  does  not  care,  if  I  love  her.  Well, 
I  will  bear  it,  I  say.  But  I  cannot  bear  it. 
Business  is  broken;  books  are  blurred;  some- 
thing remains  undone  that  fate  declares  must 

263 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

be  done.  Not  a  place  can  I  find,  but  her  sweet 
smile  gives  to  it  either  a  tinge  of  gladness,  or 
a  black  shade  of  desolation. 

I  sit  down  at  my  table  with  pleasant  books ; 
the  fire  is  burning  cheerfully;  my  dog  looks 
up  earnestly  when  I  speak  to  him;  but  it  will 
never  do!  Her  image  sweeps  away  all  these 
comforts  in  a  flood.  I  fling  down  my  book; 
I  turn  my  back  upon  my  dog;  the  fire  hisses 
and  sparkles  in  mockery  of  me. 

Suddenly  a  thought  flashes  on  my  brain;  I 
will  write  to  her,  I  say.  And  a  smile  floats 
over  my  face, — a  smile  of  hope,  ending  in 
doubt.  I  catch  up  my  pen — my  trusty  pen; 
and  the  clean  sheet  lies  before  me.  The  paper 
could  not  be  better,  nor  the  pen.  I  have  writ- 
ten hundreds  of  letters ;  it  is  easy  to  write  let- 
ters; but  now  it  is  not  easy. 

I  begin,  and  cross  it  out.  I  begin  again, 
and  get  on  a  little  farther;  then  cross  it  out. 
I  try  again,  but  can  write  nothing.  I  fling 
down  my  pen  in  despair,  and  burn  the  sheet, 
and  go  to  my  library  for  some  old  sour  treatise 
of  Shaftesbury  or  Lyttleton;  and  say, — talk- 
ing to  myself  all  the  while, — let  her  go!  She 
is  beautiful,  but  I  am  strong;  the  world  is 
short;  we — I  and  my  dog,  and  my  books,  and 
my  pen — will  battle  it  through  bravely,  and 
leave  enough  for  a  tombstone. 

264 


EVENING 

But  even  as  I  say  it,  courage  falters;  it  is 
all  false  saying!  And  I  throw  Shaftesbury 
across  the  room,  and  take  up  my  pen  again. 
It  glides  on  and  on,  as  my  hope  glows,  and  I 
tell  her  of  our  first  meeting,  and  of  our  hours 
in  the  ocean  twilight,  and  of  our  unsteady 
stepping  on  the  heaving  deck,  and  of  that  part- 
ing in  the  noise  of  London,  and  of  my  joy  at 
seeing  her  in  the  pleasant  country,  and  of  my 
grief  afterward.  And  then  I  mention  Bella, 
— her  friend  and  mine;  I  speak  of  our  last 
meeting,  and  of  my  doubt;  and  of  this  very 
evening;  and  how  I  could  not  write,  and  aban- 
doned it;  and  then  felt  something  within  me 
that  made  me  write  and  tell  her — all ! — "That 
my  heart  was  not  my  own,  but  was  wholly 
hers,  and  that  if  she  would  be  mine — I  would 
cherish  her  and  love  her  always!" 

Then  I  feel  a  kind  of  happiness — a  strange, 
tumultuous  happiness,  into  which  doubt  is 
creeping  from  time  to  time,  bringing  with  it  a 
cold  shudder.  I  seal  the  letter,  and  carry  it — 
a  great  weight — for  the  mail.  It  seems  as  if 
there  could  be  no  other  letter  that  day,  and  as 
if  all  the  coaches  and  horses,  and  cars,  and 
boats  were  specially  detailed  to  bear  that  single 
sheet.  It  is  a  great  letter  for  me;  my  destiny 
lies  in  it. 

I  do  not  sleep  well  that  night ;  it  is  a  tossing 

265 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

sleep.  One  time,  joy,  sweet  and  holy  joy,v 
comes  to  my  dreams,  and  an  angel  is  by  me; 
another  time,  the  angel  fades,  the  brightness 
fades,  and  I  wake  struggling  with  fear.  For 
many  nights  it  is  so,  until  the  day  comes  on 
which  I  am  looking  for  a  reply. 

The  postman  has  little  suspicion  that  the  let- 
ter which  he  gives  me — although  it  contains 
no  promissory  notes,  nor  moneys,  nor  deeds, 
nor  articles  of  trade — is  yet  to  have  a  greater 
influence  upon  my  life  and  upon  my  future, 
than  all  the  letters  he  has  ever  brought  to  me 
before.  But  I  do  not  show  him  this;  nor  do 
I  let  him  see  the  clutch  with  which  I  grasp  it. 
I  bear  it,  as  if  it  were  a  great  and  fearful  bur- 
den, to  my  room.  I  lock  the  door,  and  having 
broken  the  seal  with  a  quivering  hand,  read : — 


THE  LETTER 

"PAUL, — for  I  think  I  may  call  you  so  now, — 
I  know  not  how  to  answer  you.  Your  letter 
gave  me  great  joy;  but  it  gave  me  pain  too. 
I  cannot — will  not  doubt  what  you  say:  I  be- 
lieve that  you  love  me  better  than  I  deserve  to 
be  loved ;  and  I  know  that  I  am  not  worthy  of 
all  your  kind  praises.  But  it  is  not  this  that 
pains  me;  for  I  know  that  you  have  a  gen- 

266 


EVENING 

erous  heart,  and  would  forgive,  as  you  always 
have  forgiven,  any  weakness  of  mine.  I  am 
proud  too,  very  proud,  to  have  won  your  love ; 
but  it  pains  me — more  perhaps  than  you  will 
believe — to  think  that  I  cannot  write  back  to 
you  as  I  would  wish  to  write;  alas,  never!" 

Here  I  dash  the  letter  upon  the  floor,  and, 
with  my  hand  upon  my  forehead,  sit  gazing 
upon  the  glowing  coals,  and  breathing  quick 
and  loud.  The  dream  then  is  broken! 

"You  know  that  my  father  died  before 

we  had  ever  met.  He  had  an  old  friend  who 
had  come  from  England,  and  who  in  early  life 
had  done  him  some  great  service,  which  made 
him  seem  like  a  brother.  This  old  gentleman 
was  my  godfather,  and  called  me  daughter. 
When  my  father  died,  he  drew  me  to  his  side 
and  said,  'Carry,  I  shall  leave  you,  but  my  old 
friend  will  be  your  father;'  and  he  put  my 
hand  in  his  and  said,  'I  give  you  my  daughter.' 

"This  old  gentleman  had  a  son,  older  than 
myself ;  but  we  were  much  together,  and  grew 
up  as  brother  and  sister.  I  was  proud  of  him, 
for  he  was  tall  and  strong,  and  every  one  called 
him  handsome.  He  was  as  kind,  too,  as  a 
brother  could  be;  and  his  father  was  like  my 

267 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

own  father.  Every  one  said  and  believed  that 
would  one  day  be  married ;  and  my  mother 
and  my  new  father  spoke  of  it  openly.  So  did 
Laurence,  for  that  is  my  friend's  name. 

"I  do  not  need  to  tell  you  any  more,  Paul ; 
for  when  I  was  still  a  girl,  we  had  promised 
that  we  would  one  day  be  man  and  wife. 
Laurence  has  been  much  in  England ;  and  I  be- 
lieve he  is  there  now.  The  old  gentleman 
treats  me  still  as  a  daughter,  and  talks  of  the 
time  when  I  shall  come  and  live  with  him. 
The  letters  of  'Laurence  are  very  kind;  and 
though  he  does  not  talk  so  much  of  our  mar- 
riage as  he  did,  it  is  only,  I  think,  because  he 
regards  it  as  so  certain. 

"I  have  wished  to  tell  you  all  this  before,  but 

I  have  feared  to  tell  you;  I  am  afraid  I  have 

been  too  selfish  to  tell  you.     And  now  what 

j  |  can  I  say?    Laurence  seems  most  to  me  like  a 

i  brother ;  and  you,  Paul — but  I  must  not  go  on. 

For  if  I  marry  Laurence  as  fate  seems  to  have 

decided,  I  will  try  and  love  him  better  than  all 

the  world. 

"But  will  you  not  be  a  brother,  and  love  me 
as  you  once  loved  Bella?  You  say  my  eyes 
are  like  hers,  and  that  my  forehead  is  like  hers : 
will  you  not  believe  that  my  heart  is  like  hers 
too? 

268 


EVENING 

"Paul,  if  you  shed  tears  over  this  letter,  I 
have  shed  them  as  well  as  you.  I  can  write' no 
more  now. 

"Adieu." 

I  sit  long,  looking  upon  the  blaze ;  and  when 
I  rouse  myself  it  is  to  say  wicked  things 
against  destiny.  Again  all  the  future  seems 
very  blank.  I  cannot  love  Carry  as  I  loved 
Bella;  she  cannot  be  a  sister  to  me;  she  must 
be  more,  or  nothing.  Again,  I  seem  to  float; 
singly  on  the  tide  of  life,  and  see  all  around 
me  in  cheerful  groups.  Everywhere  the  sun 
shines,  except  upon  my  own  forehead.  There 
seems  no  mercy  in  heaven,  and  no  goodness 
for  me  upon  earth. 

I  write,  after  some  days,  an  answer  to  the 
letter.  But  it  is  a  bitter  answer,  in  which  I  for- 
get myself — in  the  whirl  of  my -misfortunes — 
to  the  utterance  of  reproaches. 

Her  reply,  which  comes  speedily,  is  sweet 
and  gentle.     She  is  hurt  by  my  reproaches, 
deeply  hurt.    But  with  a  touching  kindness,  of  j 
which  I  am  not  worthy,  she  credits  all  my  \ 
petulance  to  my  wounded  feeling;  she  soothes 
me,  but  in  soothing  only  wounds  the  more. 
I  try  to  believe  her  when  she  speaks  of  her 
unworthiness,  but  I  cannot. 

269 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

Business,  and  the  pursuits  of  ambition  or  of 
interest,  pass  on  like  dull,  grating  machinery. 
Tasks  are  met  and  performed,  with  strength 
indeed,  but  with  no  cheer.  Courage  is  high,  as 
I  meet  the  shocks  and  trials  of  the  world ;  but 
it  is  a  brute,  careless  courage,  that  glories  in 
opposition.  I  laugh  at  any  dangers,  or  any  in- 
sidious pitfalls;  what  are  they  to  me?  What 
do  I  possess  which  it  will  be  hard  to  lose  ?  My 
dog  keeps  by  me;  my  toils  are  present;  my 
food  is  ready;  my  limbs  are  strong: — what 
need  for  more? 

The  months  slip  by;  and  the  cloud  that 
floated  over  my  evening  sun  passes. 

Laurence,  wandering  abroad  and  writing  to 
Caroline  as  to  a  sister,  writes  more  than  his 
father  could  have  wished.  He  has  met  new 
faces,  very  sweet  faces,  and  one  which  shows 
through  the  ink  of  his  later  letters  very  gor- 
geously. The  old  gentleman  does  not  like  to 
lose  thus  his  little  Carry,  and  he  writes  back  re- 
buke. But  Laurence,  with  the  letters  of  Caro- 
line before  him  for  data,  throws  himself  upon 
his  sister's  kindness  and  charity.  It  astonishes 
not  a  little  the  old  gentleman  to  find  his  daugh- 
ter pleading  in  such  strange  way  for  the  son. 
"And  what  will  you  do  then,  my  Carry?"  the 
old  man  says. 

270 


EVENING 

"Wear  weeds,  if  you  wish,  sir;  and  love 

you  and  Laurence  more  than  ever !" 

And  he  takes  her  to  his  bosom,  and  says, 
"Carry,  Carry,  you  are  too  good  for  that  wild 
fellow,  Laurence!" 

Now  the  letters  are  different.  Now  they  are 
full  of  hope,  dawning  all  over  the  future  sky. 
Business,  and  care,  and  toil  glide  as  if  a  spirit 
animated  them  all;  it  is  no  longer  cold  ma- 
chine-work, but  intelligent  and  hopeful  activ- 
ity. The  sky  hangs  upon  you  lovingly,  and  the 
birds  make  music  that  startles  you  with  its 
fineness.  Men  wear  cheerful  faces ;  the  storms 
have  a  kind  pity  gleaming  through  all  their 
wrath. 

The  days  approach  when  you  can  call  her 
yours.  For  she  has  said  it,  and  her  mother 
has  said  it;  and  the  kind  old  gentleman,  who 
says  he  will  still  be  her  father,  has  said  it  too ; 
and  they  have  all  welcomed  you — won  by  her 
story — with  a  cordiality  that  has  made  your 
cup  full  to  running  over.  Only  one  thought 
comes  up  to  obscure  your  joy :  Is  it  real  ?  or, 
if  real,  are  you  worthy  to  enjoy?  Will  you 
cherish  and  love  always,  as  you  have  promised, 
that  angel  who  accepts  your  word,  and  rests 
her  happiness  on  your  faith?  Are  there  not 
harsh  qualities  in  your  nature  which  you  fear 

271 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

may  sometime  make  her  regret  that  she  gave 
herself  to  your  love  and  charity?  And  those 
friends  who  watch  over  her  as  the  apple  of 
their  eye,  can  you  always  meet  their  tender- 
ness and  approval  for  your  guardianship  of 
their  treasure  ?  Is  it  not  a  treasure  that  makes 
you  fearful  as  well  as  joyful  ? 

But  you  forget  this  in  her  smile;  her  kind- 
ness, her  goodness,  her  modesty  will  not  let  you 
remember  it.  She  forbids  such  thoughts;  and 
you  yield  such  obedience  as  you  never  yielded 
even  to  the  commands  of  a  mother.  And  if 
your  business  and  your  labor  slip  by  partially 
neglected,  what  matters  it?  What  is  interest, 
or  what  is  reputation,  compared  with  that  ful- 
ness of  your  heart  which  is  now  ripe  with  joy? 

The  day  for  your  marriage  comes,  and  you 
live  as  if  you  were  in  a  dream.  You  think 
well  and  hope  well  for  all  the  world.  A  flood 
of  charity  seems  to  radiate  from  all  around 
you.  And  as  you  sit  beside  her  in  the  twi- 
light, on  the  evening  before  the  day  when  you 
will  call  her  yours,  and  talk  of  the  coming 
hopes,  and  of  the  soft  shadows  of  the  past; 
and  whisper  of  Bella's  love,  and  of  that  sweet 
sister's  death ;  and  of  Laurence,  a  new  brother, 
coming  home  joyful  with  his  bride;  and  lay 
your  cheek  to  hers, — life  seems  as  if  it  were  all 
day,  and  as  if  there  could  be  no  night. 

272 


EVENING 

The  marriage  passes,  and  she  is  yours, — 
yours  forever. 

NEW  TRAVEL 

AGAIN  I  am  upon  the  sea,  but  not  alone.  She, 
whom  I  first  met  upon  the  wastes  of  ocean,  is 
there  beside  me.  Again  I  steady  her  tottering 
step  upon  the  deck;  once  it  was  a  drifting, 
careless  pleasure;  now  the  pleasure  is  holy. 

Once  the  fear  I  felt — as  the  storms  gath- 
ered, and  night  came,  and  the  ship  tossed 
madly,  and  great  waves  gathering  swift  and 
high  came  down  like  slipping  mountains,  and 
spent  their  force  upon  the  quivering  vessel — 
was  a  selfish  fear.  But  it  is  so  no  longer.  In- 
deed I  hardly  know  fear ;  for  how  can  the  tem- 
pests harm  her?  Is  she  not  too  good  to  suffer 
any  of  the  wrath  of  heaven  ? 

And  in  the  nights  of  calm — holy  nights — 
we  lean  over  the  ship's  side,  looking  down,  as 
once  before,  into  the  dark  depths,  and  murmur 
again  snatches  of  ocean  song,  and  talk  of  those 
we  love;  and  we  peer  among  the  stars,  which 
seem  neighborly,  and  as  if  they  were  the  homes 
of  friends.  And  as  the  great  ocean-swells 
come  rocking  under  us,  and  carry  us  up  and 
down  along  the  valleys  and  the  hills  of  water, 
they  seem  like  deep  pulsations  of  the  great 

273 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

heart  of  nature,  heaving  us  forward  toward  the 
goal  of  life,  and  to  the  gates  of  heaven. 

We  watch  the  ships  as  they  come  upon  the 
horizon,  and  sweep  toward  us,  like  false 
friends,  with  the  sun  glittering  on  their  sails : 
and  then  shift  their  course,  and  bear  away — 
with  their  bright  sails  turned  to  spots  of 
shadow.  We  watch  the  long-winged  birds 
skimming  the  waves  hour  after  hour,  like  way- 
ward thoughts ;  now  dashing  before  our  bows, 
and  then  sweeping  behind  until  they  are  lost 
in  the  hollows  of  the  water. 

Again  life  lies  open,  as  it  did  once  before; 
but  the  regrets,  disappointments,  and  fruitless 
resolves  do  not  come  to  trouble  me  now.  It  is 
the  future,  which  has  become  as  level  as  the 
sea;  and  she  is  beside  me,  the  sharer  in  that 
future,  to  look  out  with  me  upon  the  joyous 
sparkle  of  water,  and  to  count  with  me  the 
dazzling  ripples  that  lie  between  us  and  the 
shore.  A  thousand  pleasant  plans  come  up, 
and  are  abandoned,  like  the  waves  we  leave 
behind  us;  a  thousand  other  joyous  plans 
dawn  upon  our  fancy,  like  the  waves  that  glit- 
ter before  us.  We  talk  of  Laurence  and  his 
bride,  whom  we  are  to  meet;  we  talk  of  her 
mother,  who  is  even  now  watching  the  winds 
that  waft  her  child  over  the  ocean ;  we  talk  of 
the  kindly  old  man,  her  godfather,  who  gave 


EVENING 

her  a  father's  blessing;  we  talk  low,  and  in  the 
twilight  hours,  of  Isabel — who  sleeps. 

At  length,  as  the  sun  goes  down  upon  a  fair 
night  over  the  western  waters  which  we  have 
passed,  we  see  before  us  the  low,  blue  line  of 
the  shores  of  Cornwall  and  Devon.  In  the 
night,  shadowy  ships  glide  past  us  with  gleam- 
ing lanterns;  and  in  the  morning  we  see  the 
yellow  cliffs  of  the  Isle  of  Wight,  and  standing 
out  from  the  land  is  the  dingy  sail  of  our  pilot. 
London,  with  its  fog,  roar,  and  crowds,  has 
not  the  same  charms  that  it  once  had ;  that  roar 
and  crowd  is  good  to  make  a  man  forget  his 
griefs,  forget  himself,  and  stupefy  him  with 
amazement.  We  are  in  no  need  of  such  for- 
getfulness. 

We  roll  along  the  banks  of  the  sylvan  river 
that  glides  by  Hampton  Court ;  and  we  toil  up 
Richmond  Hill,  to  look  together  upon  that 
scene  of  water  and  meadow, — of  leafy  copses, 
and  glistening  villas, — of  brown  cottages,  and 
clustered  hamlets, — of  solitary  oaks,  and  loi- 
tering herds, — all  spread  like  a  veil  over  the 
rich  valley  of  the  Thames.  But  we  cannot  linger 
here,  nor  even  under  the  glorious  old  boles  of 
Windsor  Forest :  but  we  hurry  on  to  that 
sweet  county  of  Devon,  made  green  with  its 
white  skeins  of  water. 

Again  we  loiter  under  the  oaks  where  we 

275 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

have  loitered  before;  and  the  sleek  deer  gaze 
on  us  with  their  liquid  eyes,  as  they  gazed  be- 
fore. The  squirrels  sport  among  the  boughs 
as  fearless  as  ever;  and  some  wandering  puss 
pricks  her  long  ears  at  our  steps,  and  bounds 
off  along  the  hedge-rows  to  her  burrow.  Again 
I  see  Carry  in  her  velvet  riding-cap,  with  the 
white  plume;  and  I  meet  her,  as  I  met  her  be- 
fore, under  the  princely  trees  that  skirt  the 
northern  avenue.  I  recall  the  evening  when 
I  sauntered  out  at  the  park-gates,  and  gained 
a  blessing  from  the  porter's  wife,  and  dreamed 
that  strange  dream; — now,  the  dream  seems 
more  real  than  my  life.  "God  bless  you !"  said 
the  woman  again. 

— "Aye,  old  lady,  God  has  blessed  me!" — 
and  I  fling  her  a  guinea,  not  as  a  gift,  but  as 
a  debt. 

The  bland  farmer  lives  yet ;  he  scarce  knows 
me,  until  I  tell  him  of  my  bout  around  his  oat- 
field  at  the  tail  of  his  long-stilted  plough.  I 
find  the  old  pew  in  the  parish  church.  Other 
holly-sprigs  are  hung  now ;  and  I  do  not  doze, 
for  Carry  is  beside  me.  The  curate  drawls  the 
service,  but  it  is  pleasant  to  listen ;  and  I  make 
the  responses  with  an  emphasis  that  tells  more, 
I  fear,  for  my  joy  than  for  my  religion.  The 
old  groom  at  the  mansion  in  the  Park  has  not 
forgotten  the  hard  riding  of  other  days,  and 

276 


EVENING 

tells  long  stories  (to  which  I  love  to  listen) 
of  the  old  visit  of  Mistress  Carry,  when  she 
followed  the  hounds  with  the  best  of  the  Eng- 
lish lasses. 

— "Yer  honor  may  well  be  proud,  for  not  a 
prettier  face,  or  a  kinder  heart,  has  been  in 
Devon  since  Mistress  Carry  left  us !" 

But  pleasant  as  are  the  old  woods,  full  of 
memories,  and  pleasant  as  are  the  twilight 
evenings  upon  the  terrace,  we  must  pass  over 
to  the  mountains  of  Switzerland.  There  we 
are  to  meet  Laurence. 

Carry  has  never  seen  the  magnificence  of  the 
Juras;  and  as  we  journey  over  the  hills  be- 
tween Dole  and  the  border  line,  looking  upon 
the  rolling  heights  shrouded  with  pine-trees, 
and  down  thousands  of  feet,  at  the  very  road- 
side, upon  the  cottage-roofs,  and  emerald  val- 
leys, where  the  dun  herds  are  feeding  quietly, 
she  is  lost  in  admiration.  At  length  we  come 
to  that  point  above  the  little  town  of  Gex,  from 
which  you  see,  spread  out  before  you,  the 
meadows  that  skirt  Geneva,  the  placid  surface 
of  Lake  Leman,  and  the  rough,  shaggy  moun- 
tains of  Savoy;  and  far  behind  them,  breaking 
the  horizon  with  snowy  cap,  and  with  dark 
pinnacles,  Mont  Blanc,  and  the  Needles  of 
Chamouni. 

I  point  out  to  her  in  the  valley  below  the 

277 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

little  town  of  Ferney,  where  stands  the  de- 
serted chateau  of  Voltaire;  and  beyond,  upon 
the  shores  of  the  lake,  the  old  home  of  De 
Stael;  and  across,  with  its  white  walls  re- 
flected upon  the  bosom  of  the  water,  the  house 
where  Byron  wrote  the  "Prisoner  of  Chillon." 
Among  the  grouping  roofs  of  Geneva  we  trace 
the  dark  cathedral,  and  the  tall  hotels  shining 
on  the  edge  of  the  lake.  And  I  tell  of  the  time 
when  I  tramped  down  through  yonder  valley, 
with  my  future  all  visionary  and  broken,  and 
drank  the  splendor  of  the  scene,  only  as  a  quick 
relief  to  the  monotony  of  my  solitary  life. 

"And    now,    Carry,    with   your    hand 

locked  in  mine,  and  your  heart  mine,  yonder 
lake  sleeping  in  the  sun,  and  the  snowy  moun- 
tains with  their  rosy  hue,  seem  like  the  smile  of 
Nature,  bidding  us  be  glad !" 

Laurence  is  at  Geneva:  he  welcomes  Carry 
as  he  would  welcome  a  sister.  He  is  a  noble 
fellow,  and  tells  me  much  of  his  sweet  Italian 
wife;  and  presents  me  to  the  smiling,  blush- 
/  ing — Enrica !  She  has  learned  English  now ; 
she  has  found,  she  says,  a  better  teacher  than 
ever  I  was.  Yet  she  welcomes  me  warmly,  as 
a  sister  might ;  and  we  talk  of  those  old  even- 
ings by  the  blazing  fire,  and  of  the  one-eyed 
Maestro,  as  children,  long  separated,  might 

278 


EVENING 

talk  of  their  school-tasks  and  of  their  teachers. 
She  cannot  tell  me  enough  of  her  praises  of 
Laurence,  and  of  his  noble  heart.  "You  were 
good,"  she  says,  "but  Laurence  is  better." 

Carry  admires  her  soft  brown  hair,  and  her 
deep  liquid  eye,  and  wonders  how  I  could  ever 
have  left  Rome? 

Do  you  indeed  wonder,  Carry? 

And  together  we  go  down  into  Savoy,  to 
that  marvellous  valley  which  lies  under  the 
shoulder  of  Mont  Blanc ;  and  we  wander  over 
the  Mer  de  Glace,  and  pick  Alpine  roses  from 
the  edge  of  the  frowning  glacier.  We  toil  at 
nightfall  up  to  the  monastery  of  the  Great  St. 
Bernard,  where  the  new-forming  ice  crackles 
in  the  narrow  footway,  and  the  cold  moon  glis- 
tens over  wastes  of  snow,  and  upon  the  win- 
dows of  the  dark  Hospice.  Again,  we  are 
among  the  granite  heights,  whose  ledges  are 
filled  with  ice,  upon  the  Grimsel.  The  pond  is 
•dark  and  cold;  the  paths  are  slippery;  the 
great  glacier  of  the  Aar  sends  down  icy 
breezes,  and  the  echoes  ring  from  rock  to  rock, 
as  if  the  ice-god  answered.  And  yet  we 
neither  suffer  nor  fear. 

In  the  sweet  valley  of  Meyringen  we  part 
from  Laurence:  he  goes  northward,  by  Grin- 
delwald  and  Thun,  thence  to  journey  west- 

279 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

ward,  and  to  make  for  the  Roman  girl  a  home 
beyond  the  ocean.  Enrica  bids  me  go  on 
to  Rome :  she  knows  that  Carry  will  love  its 
soft,  warm  air,  its  ruins,  its  pictures  and 
temples,  better  than  these  cold  valleys  of  Swit- 
zerland. She  gives  me  kind  messages  for  her 
mother,  and  for  Cesare;  and  should  we  be  in 
Rome  at  the  Easter  season,  she  bids  us  re- 
member her,  when  we  listen  to  the  Miserere, 
and  when  we  see  the  great  Chiesa  on  fire,  and 
when  we  saunter  upon  the  Pincian  Hill, — and 
remember  that  it  is  her  home. 

We  follow  them  with  our  eyes  as  they  go  up 
the  steep  height  over  which  falls  the  white 
foam  of  the  clattering  Reichenbach ;  and  they 
wave  their  hands  toward  us,  and  disappear  up- 
on the  little  plateau  which  stretches  toward  the 
crystal  Rosenlaui,  and  the  tall,  still  Engel- 
Horner. 

May  the  mountain  angels  guard  them ! 

As  we  journey  on  toward  that  wonderful 
pass  of  Spliigen,  I  recall  by  the  way,  upon  the 
heights  and  in  the  valleys,  the  spots  where  I 
lingered  years  before.  Here,  I  plucked  a 
flower;  there,  I  drank  from  that  cold,  yellow 
glacier  water ;  and  here,  upon  some  rock  over- 
looking a  stretch  of  broken  mountains,  hoary 
f'with  their  eternal  frosts,  I  sat  musing  upon 

280 


EVENING 

that  very  Future  which  is  with  me  now.    But  ; 
never,   even   when  the   ice  Genii   were  most 
prodigal  of  their  fancies  to  the  wanderer,  did 
I  look  for  more  joy,  or  a  better  angel. 

Afterward,  when  all  our  trembling  upon  the 
Alpine  paths  has  gone  by,  we  are  rolling  along 
under  the  chestnuts  and  lindens  that  skirt  the 
banks  of  Como.  We  recall  that  sweet  story 
of  Manzoni,  and  I  point  out,  as  well  as  I  may, 
the  loitering  place  of  the  bravi,  and  the  track 
of  poor  Don  Abbondio.  We  follow  in  the  path 
of  the  discomfited  Renzi,  to  where  the  dainty 
spire  and  pinnacles  of  the  Duomo  of  Milan 
glisten  against  the  violet  sky. 

Carry  longs  to  see  Venice;  its  water-streets 
and  palaces  have  long  floated  in  her  visions. 
In  the  bustling  activity  of  our  own  country, 
and  in  the  quiet  fields  of  England,  that  strange, 
half-deserted  capital,  lying  in  the  Adriatic,  has 
taken  the  strongest  hold  upon  her  fancy. 

So  we  leave  Padua  and  Verona  behind  us, 
and  find  ourselves  upon  a  soft  spring  noon  up- 
on the  end  of  the  iron  road  which  stretches 
across  the  lagoon  toward  Venice.  With  the 
hissing  of  steam  in  the  ear,  it  is  hard  to  think 
of  the  wonderful  city  we  are  approaching.  But 
as  we  escape  from  the  carriage,  and  set  our 
feet  down  into  one  of  those  strange,  hearse- 

281 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

like,  ancient  boats,  with  its  sharp  iron  prow, 
and  listen  to  the  melodious,  rolling  tongue  of 
the  Venetian  gondolier ; — as  we  see  rising  over 
the  watery  plain  before  us — all  glittering  in 
the  sun — tall,  square  towers  with  pyramidal 
tops,  and  clustered  domes,  and  minarets,  and 
sparkling  roofs  lifting  from  marble  walls, — 
all  so  like  the  old  paintings ; — and  as  we  glide 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  floating  wonder  under 
the  silent  working  oar  of  our  now  silent  gon- 
dolier;— as  we  ride  up  swiftly  under  the  deep, 
broad  shadows  of  palaces,  and  see  plainly  the 
play  of  the  sea-water  in  the  crevices  of  the 
masonry,  and  turn  into  narrow  rivers  shaded 
darkly  by  overhanging  walls,  hearing  no  sound 
but  of  voices,  or  the  swaying  of  the  water 
<  against  the  houses, — we  feel  the  presence  of 
the  place.  And  the  mystic  fingers  of  the  Past, 
grappling  our  spirits  lead  them  away,  willing 
and  rejoicing  captives,  through  the  long  vista 
t  of  the  ages  that  are  gone. 

Carry  is  in  a  trance, — rapt  by  the  witchery 
of  the  scene  into  dream.  This  is  her  Venice; 
nor  have  all  the  visions,  that  played  upon  her 
fancy,  been  equal  to  the  enchanting  presence 
of  this  hour  of  approach. 

Afterward  it  becomes  a  living  thing,  stealing 
upon  the  affections  and  upon  the  imagination 

282 


EVENING 

by  a  thousand  coy  advances.  We  wander, 
under  the  warm  Italian  sunlight,  to  the  steps 
from  which  rolled  the  white  head  of  poor  Ma- 
riano Faliero.  The  gentle  Carry  can  now 
thrust  ber  ungloved  hand  into  the  terrible 
Lion's  mouth.  We  enter  the  salon  of  the  fear- 
ful Ten,  and  peep  through  the  half-opened 
door  into  the  cabinet  of  the  more  fearful 
Three.  We  go  through  the  deep  dungeons  of 
Carmagnola  and  of  Carrara;  and  we  instruct 
the  willing  gondolier  to  push  his  dark  boat 
under  the  Bridge  of  Sighs;  and  with  Rogers' 
poem  in  our  hand,  glide  up  to  the  prison-door, 
and  read  of — 

"that  fearful  closet  at  the  foot 
Lurking  for  prey,  which,  when  a  victim  came, 
Grew  less  and  less,  contracting  to  a  span 
An  iron  door,  urged  onward  by  a  screw, 
Forcing  out  life  1" 

I  sail  listening  to  nothing  but  the  dip  of  the 
gondolier's  oar,  or  to  her  gentle  words,  fast 
under  the  palace-door  which  closed  that  fear- 
ful morning  on  the  guilt  and  shame  of  Bianca 
Capello.  Or,  with  souls  lit  up  by  the  scene 
into  a  buoyancy  that  can  scarce  distinguish 
between  what  is  real  and  what  is  merely  writ- 
ten, we  chase  the  anxious  step  of  the  forsaken 

283 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

Corinna;  or  seek  among  the  veteran  palaces 
the  casement  of  the  old  Brabantio, — the  cham- 
ber of  Desdemona, — the  house  of  Jessica;  and 
trace  among  the  strange  Jew  money-changers, 
who  yet  haunt  the  Rialto,  the  likeness  of  the 
bearded  Shylock.  We  wander  into  stately 
churches,  brushing  over  grass  or  tell-tale 
flowers  that  grow  in  the  court,  and  find  them 
damp  and  cheerless ;  the  incense  rises  murkily, 
and  rests  in  a  thick  cloud  over  the  altars,  and 
over  the  paintings ;  the  music,  if  so  be  that  the 
organ-notes  are  swelling  under  the  roof,  is 
mournfully  plaintive. 

Of  an  afternoon  we  sail  over  to  the  Lido, 
to  gladden  our  eyes  with  a  sight  of  land  and 
green  things,  and  we  pass  none  upon  the  way 
save  silent  oarsmen,  with  barges  piled  high 
with  the  produce  of  their  gardens,  pushing 
their  way  down  toward  the  floating  city.  And 
upon  the  narrow  island  we  find  Jewish  graves, 
half  covered  by  drifted  sand;  and  from  among 
them  watch  the  sunset  glimmering  over  a  deso- 
late level  of  water.  As  we  glide  back,  lights 
lift  over  the  Lagoon,  and  double  along  the 
Giudecca  and  the  Grand  Canal.  The  little 
neighbor  isles  will  have  their  company  of  lights 
dancing  in  the  water;  and  from  among  them 
will  rise  up  against  the  mellow  evening  sky  of 
Italy,  gaunt,  unlighted  houses. 

284 


EVENING 

After  the  nightfall,  which  brings  no  harm- 
ful dew  with  it,  I  stroll,  with  her  hand  within 
my  arm, —  as  once  upon  the  sea,  and  in  the 
English  Park,  and  in  the  home-land, — over 
that  great  Square  which  lies  before  the  palace 
of  St.  Mark's.  The  white  moon  is  riding  in 
the  middle  heaven  like  a  globe  of  silver;  the 
gondoliers  stride  over  the  echoing  stones ; 
and  their  long,  black  shadows,  stretching  over 
the  pavement,  or  shaking  upon  the  moving 
water,  seem  like  great  funereal  plumes  wav- 
ing over  the  bier  of  Venice. 

Carrying  thence  whole  treasures  of  thought 
and  fancy  to  feed  upon  in  the  after-years,  we 
wander  to  Rome. 

I  find  the  old  one-eyed  Maestro,  and  am  met 
with  cordial  welcome  by  the  mother  of  the 
pretty  Enrica.  The  Count  has  gone  to  the 
Marches  of  Ancona.  Lame  Pietro  still  shuffles 
around  the  boards  at  the  Lepre,  and  the  flower- 
sellers  at  the  corner  bind  me  a  more  brilliant 
bouquet  than  ever  for  a  new  beauty  at  Rome. 
As  we  ramble  under  the  broken  arches  of  the 
great  aqueduct  stretching  toward  Frascati,  I 
tell  Carry  the  story  of  my  trip  in  the  Apen- 
nines, and  we  search  for  the  pretty  Carlotta. 
But  she  is  married,  they  tell  us,  to  a  Neapol- 
itan guardsman.  In  the  spring  twilight  we 
wander  upon  those  heights  which  lie  between 

285 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

Frascati  and  Albano,  and  looking  westward, 
see  that  glorious  view  of  the  Campagna  which 
can  never  be  forgotten.  But  beyond  the  Cam- 
pagna, and  beyond  the  huge  hulk  of  St.  Peter's, 
heaving  into  the  sky  from  the  middle  waste, 
we  see — or  fancy  we  see — a  glimpse  of  the 
Waters  which  stretch  out  and  on  to  the  land 
we  love  better  than  Rome.  And  in  fancy  we 
build  up  that  home  which  shall  belong  to  us 
on  the  return, — a  home  that  has  slumbered 
long  in  the  future,  and  which,  now  that  the 
future  has  come,  lies  fairly  before  me. 


HOME 

I  YEARS  seem  to  have  passed.     They  have  mel- 
lowed   life    into    ripeness.      The    start,    and 
change,  and  hot  ambition  of  youth  seem  to 
have  gone  by.     A  calm  and  joyful  quietude 
'  has  succeeded.     That  future,  which  still  lies 
before  me,  seems  like  a  roseate  twilight  sink 
1  ing  into  a  peaceful  and  silent  .night. 

My  home  is  a  cottage  near  that  where  Isabel 
once  lived.  The  same  valley  is  around  me; 
the  same  brook  rustles  and  loiters  under  the 
gnarled  roots  of  the  overhanging  trees.  The 
cottage  is  no  mock  cottage,  but  a  substantial, 

286 


EVENING 

wide-spreading  cottage  with  clustering  gables 
and  ample  shade, — such  a  cottage  as  they  build 
upon  the  slopes  of  Devon.  Vines  clamber  over 
it,  and  the  stones  show  mossy  through  the  in- 
terlacing climbers.  There  are  low  porches 
with  cosey  arm-chairs,  and  generous  oriels 
fragrant  with  mignonette  and  the  blue  blos- 
soming violets. 

The  chimney-stacks  rise  high,  and  show  clear 
against  the  heavy  pine-trees  that  ward  off  the 
blasts  of  winter.  The  dove-cote  is  a  habited 
dove-cote,  and  the  purple-necked  pigeons 
swoop  around  the  roofs  in  great  companies. 
The  hawthorn  is  budding  into  its  June  fra- 
grance along  all  the  lines  of  fence,  and  the 
paths  are  trim  and  clean.  The  shrubs — our 
neglected  azalias  and  rhododendrons  chiefest 
among  them — stand  in  picturesque  groups  up- 
on the  close-shaven  lawn. 

The  gate-way  in  the  thicket  below  is  be- 
tween two  mossy  old  posts  of  stone ;  and  there 
is  a  tall  hemlock,  flanked  by  a  sturdy  pine,  for 
sentinel.  Within  the  cottage  the  library  is 
wainscoted  with  native  oak;  and  my  trusty 
gun  hangs  upon  a  branching  pair  of  antlers. 
My  rod  and  nets  are  disposed  above  the  gen- 
erous book-shelves;  and  a  stout  eagle,  once  a 
tenant  of  the  native  woods,  sits  perched  over 

287 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

the  central  alcove.  An  old-fashioned  mantel 
is  above  the  brown  stone  jambs  of  the  country 
fireplace,  and  along  it  are  distributed  records 
of  travel,  little  bronze  temples  from  Rome, 
the  pietro  duro  of  Florence,  the  porcelain  busts 
of  Dresden,  the  rich  iron  of  Berlin,  and  a  cup 
fashioned  from  a  stag's  horn,  from  the  Black 
Forest  by  the  Rhine. 

Massive  chairs  stand  here  and  there  in 
tempting  attitude ;  strewed  over  an  oaken  table 
in  the  middle  are  the  uncut  papers  and  volumes 
of  the  day;  and  upon  a  lion's  skin  stretched 
before  the  hearth  is  lying  another  Tray. 

But  this  is  not  all.  There  are  children  in 
the  cottage.  There  is  Jamie; — we  think  him 
handsome,  for  he  has  the  dark  hair  of  his 
mother,  and  the  same  black  eye  with  its  long, 
heavy  fringe.  There  is  Carry, — little  Carry  I 
must  call  her  now, — with  a  face  full  of  glee, 
and  rosy  with  health.  Then  there  is  a  little 
rogue  some  two  years  old,  whom  we  call  Paul, 
— a  very  bad  boy,  as  we  tell  him. 

The  mother  is  as  beautiful  as  ever,  and  far 
more  dear  to  me;  for  gratitude  has  been  add- 
ing, year  by  year,  to  love.  There  have  been 
times  when  a  harsh  word  of  mine,  uttered  in 
the  fatigues  of  business,  has  touched  her;  and 
I  have  seen  that  soft  eye  fill  with  tears;  and 

288 


EVENING 

I  have  upbraided  myself  for  causing  her  one 
pang.  But  such  things  she  does  not  remem- 
ber, or  remembers  only  to  cover  with  her  gen- 
tle forgiveness. 

Laurence  and  Enrica  are  living  near  us. 
And  the  old  gentleman,  who  was  Carry's  god- 
father, sits  with  me  on  sunny  days  upon  the 
porch,  and  takes  little  Paul  upon  his  knee,  and 
wonders  if  two  such  daughters  as  Enrica  and 
Carry  are  to  be  found  in  the  world.  At  twi- 
light we  ride  over  to  see  Laurence;  Jamie 
mounts  with  the  coachman;  little  Carry  puts 
on  her  wide-rimmed  Leghorn  for  the  evening 
visit;  and  the  old  gentleman's  plea  for  Paul 
cannot  be  denied.  The  mother  too  is  with  us ; 
and  old  Tray  comes  whisking  along,  now  frol- 
icking before  the  horses'  heads,  and  then 
bounding  off  after  the  flight  of  some  belated 
bird. 

Away  from  that  cottage  home  I  seem  away 
from  life.  Within  it,  that  broad  and  shadowy 
future,  which  lay  before  me  in  boyhood  and  in 
youth,  is  garnered,  like  a  fine  mist  gathered 
into  drops  of  crystal. 

And  when  away,  those  long  letters,  dating 
from  the  cottage  home,  are  what  tie  me  to  life. 
That  cherished  wife — far  dearer  to  me  now 
than  when  she  wrote  that  first  letter,  which 

289 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

seemed  a  dark  veil  between  me  and  the  future 
— writes  me  now  as  tenderly  as  then.  She 
narrates,  in  her  delicate  way,  all  the  incidents 
of  the  home-life;  she  tells  me  of  their  rides, 
and  of  their  games,  and  of  the  new-planted 
trees, — of  all  their  sunny  days,  and  of  their 
frolics  on  the  lawn ;  she  tells  me  how  Jamie  is 
studying,  and  of  little  Carry's  beauty,  grow- 
ing every  day,  and  of  roguish  Paul — so  like 
his  father !  And  she  sends  me  a  kiss  from  each 
of  them;  and  bids  me  such  adieu,  and  such 
"God's  blessing,"  that  it  seems  as  if  an  angel 
guarded  us. 

But  this  is  not  all;  for  Jamie  has  written  a 
postscript. 

"Dear  Father,"  he  says,  "mother  wishes 

me  to  tell  you  how  I  am  studying.  What 
would  you  think,  father,  to  have  me  talk  in 
French  to  you,  when  you  come  back?  I  wish 
you  would  come  back  though ;  the  crocuses  are 
coming  out,  and  the  apricot  under  my  window 
is  all  full  of  blossoms.  If  you  should  bring 
me  a  present,  as  you  almost  always  do,  I  would 
like  a  fishing-rod. 

"Your  affectionate  son, 

"JAMIE." 

And  little  Carry  has  her  fine,  rambling  char- 
acters running  into  a  second  postscript. 

290 


EVENING 

"Why  don't  you  come,  papa;  you  stay  too 
long.  I  have  ridden  the  pony  twice;  once  he 
most  threw  me  off.  This  is  all  from 

"CARRY." 

And  Paul  has  taken  the  pen  too,  and  in  his 
extraordinary  effort  to  make  a  big  P,  has  made 
a  very  big  blot.  And  Jamie  writes  under  it, — 
"This  is  Paul's  work,  Pa;  but  he  says  it  's  a 
love-blot,  only  he  loves  you  ten  hundred  times 
more." 

And  after  your  return,  Jamie  will  insist  that 
you  should  go  with  him  to  the  brook,  and  sit 
down  with  him  upon  a  tussock  by  the  bank, 
to  fling  off  a  line  into  the  eddies,  though  only 
the  nibbling  roach  are  sporting  below.  You 
have  instructed  the  workmen  to  spare  the 
clumps  of  bank-willows,  that  the  wood-duck 
may  have  a  covert  in  winter,  and  that  the  Bob- 
o'-Lincolns  may  have  a  quiet  nesting-place  in 
the  spring. 

Sometimes  your  wife — too  kind  to  deny  such 
favor — will  stroll  with  you  along  the  meadow 
banks,  and  you  pick  meadow-daisies  in  memory 
of  the  old  time.  Little  Carry  weaves  them 
into  rude  chaplets,  to  dress  the  forehead  of 
Paul;  and  they  dance  along  the  greensward, 
and  switch  off  the  clover  heads,  and  blow  away 
the  dandelion  seeds,  to  see  if  their  wishes  are 

291 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

to  come  true;  Jamie  holds  a  buttercup  under 
Carry's  chin,  to  find  if  she  loves  gold;  and 
Paul,  the  rogue,  teases  them  by  sticking  a 
thistle  into  sister's  curls. 

The  pony  has  hard  work  to  do  under  Carry's 
swift  riding;  but  he  is  fed  by  her  own  hand 
with  the  cold  breakfast  rolls.  The  nuts  are 
gathered  in  time,  and  stored  for  long  winter 
evenings,  when  the  fire  is  burning  bright  and 
cheerily, — a  true,  hickory  blaze,  which  sends 
its  waving  gleams  over  eager,  smiling  faces, 
and  over  well-stored  book-shelves  and  por- 
traits of  dear  lost  ones.  While  from  time  to 
time  that  wife,  who  is  the  soul  of  the  scene, 
will  break  upon  the  children's  prattle,  with  the 
silver  melody  of  her  voice,  running  softly  and 
sweetly  through  the  couplets  of  Crabbe's  sto- 
ries, or  the  witchery  of  the  Flodden  Tale. 

Then  the  boys  will  guess  conundrums,  and 
play  at  fox-and-geese ;  and  Tray,  cherished  in 
his  age,  and  old  Milo,  petted  in  his  dotage,  lie 
side  by  side  upon  the  lion's  skin  before  the 
blazing  hearth.  Little  Tomtit — the  goldfinch 
— sits  sleeping  on  his  perch,  or  cocks  his  eye 
at  a  sudden  crackling  of  the  fire  for  a  familiar 
squint  upon  our  family  group. 

i    But  there  is  no  future  without  its  straggling 
292 


EVENING 

clouds.  Even  now  a  shadow  is  trailing  along 
the  landscape. 

It  is  a  soft  and  mild  day  of  summer.  The 
leaves  are  at  their  fullest.  A  southern  breeze 
has  been  blowing  up  the  valley  all  the  morn- 
ing, and  the  light,  smoky  haze  hangs  over  the 
distant  mountain-gaps  like  a  veil  on  beauty. 
Jamie  has  been  busy  with  his  lessons,  and 
afterward  playing  with  Milo  upon  the  lawn. 
Little  Carry  has  come  in  from  a  long  ride, — 
her  face  blooming,  and  her  eyes  all  smiles  and 
joy.  The  mother  has  busied  herself  with  those 
flowers  she  loves  so  well.  Little  Paul,  they 
say,  has  been  playing  in  the  meadow,  and  old 
Tray  has  gone  with  him. 

But  at  dinner-time,  Paul  does  not  come  back. 

"Paul  ought  not  to  ramble  off  so  far,"  I  say. 

The  mother  says  nothing ;  but  there  is  a  look 
of  anxiety  upon  her  face  that  disturbs  me. 
Jamie  wonders  where  Paul  can  be,  and  he 
saves  for  him — whatever  he  knows  Paul  will 
like — a  heaping  plateful.  But  the  dinner-hour 
passes,  and  Paul  does  not  come.  Old  Tray 
lies  in  the  sunshine  by  the  porch. 

Now  the  mother  is  indeed  anxious.  And  I, 
though  I  conceal  this  from  her,  find  my  fears 
strangely  active.  Something  like  instinct 
guides  me  to  the  meadow ;  I  wander  down  the 

293 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

brook-side,  calling — Paul!  Paul!  But  there 
is  no  answer. 

All  the  afternoon  we  search,  and  the  neigh- 
bors search;  but  it  is  a  fruitless  toil.  There 
is  no  joy  that  evening:  the  meal  passes  in 
silence;  only  little  Carry,  with  tears  in  her 
eyes,  asks  if  Paul  will  soon  come  back?  All 
the  night  we  search  and  call :  the  mother,  even, 
braving  the  night-air,  and  running  here  and 
there,  until  the  morning  finds  us  sad  and  de- 
spairing. 

That  day — the  next — cleared  up  the  mys- 
tery; but  cleared  it  up  with  darkness.  Poor 
little  Paul!  he  has  sunk  under  the  murderous 
eddies  of  the  brook!  His  boyish  prattle,  his 
rosy  smiles,  his  artless  talk,  are  lost  to  us  for- 
ever! 

I  will  not  tell  how,  nor  when,  we  found  him ; 
nor  will  I  tell  of  our  desolate  home,  and  of 
her  grief — the  first  crushing  grief  of  her  life. 

The  cottage  is  still.  The  servants  glide 
noiseless,  as  if  they  might  startle  the  poor  little 
sleeper.  The  house  seems  cold,  very  cold.  Yet 
it  is  summer  weather;  and  the  south  breeze 
plays  softly  along  the  meadow,  and  softly  over 
the  murderous  eddies  of  the  brook. 

Then  comes  the  hush  of  burial.     The  kind 

294 


EVENING 

mourners  are  there; — it  is  easy  for  them  to 
mourn!  The  good  clergyman  prays  by  the 
bier : — "O  Thou,  who  didst  take  upon  thyself 
human  woe,  and  drank  deep  of  every  pang  in 
life,  let  thy  Spirit  come  and  heal  this  grief, 
and  guide  toward  that  Better  Land,  where 
justice  and  love  shall  reign,  and  hearts  laden 
with  anguish  shall  rest  for  evermore!" 

Weeks  roll  on;  and  a  smile  of  resignation 
lights  up  the  saddened  features  of  the  mother. 
Those  dark  mourning-robes  speak  to  the  heart 
deeper  and  more  tenderly  than  ever  the  bridal 
costume.  She  lightens  the  weight  of  your 
grief  by  her  sweet  words  of  resignation. 
"Paul,"  she  says,  "God  has  taken  our  boy !" 

Other  weeks  roll  on.  Joys  are  still  left — 
great  and  ripe  joys.  The  cottage  smiling  in 
the  autumn  sunshine  is  there;  the  birds  are  in 
the  forest  boughs;  Jamie  and  little  Carry  are 
there;  and  she,  who  is  more  than  them  all,  is 
cheerful  and  content.  Heaven  has  taught  us 
that  the  brightest  future  has  its  clouds,  that 
this  life  is  a  motley  of  lights  and  shadows. 
And  as  we  look  upon  the  world  around  us, 
and  upon  the  thousand  forms  of  human  misery, 
there  is  a  gladness  in  our  deep  thanksgiving. 

A  year  goes  by ;  but  ij^  leaves  no  added 
shadow  on  our  hearth-stone.  The  vines  clam- 

295 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

her  and  flourish;  the  oaks  are  winning  age 
and  grandeur.  Little  Carry  is  blooming  into 
the  pretty  coyness  of  girlhood ;  and  Jamie,  with 
his  dark  hair  and  flashing  eyes,  is  the  pride  of 
his  mother. 

There  is  no  alloy  to  pleasure  but  the  remem- 
brance of  poor  little  Paul.  And  even  that, 
chastened  as  it  is  with  years,  is  rather  a  grate- 
ful memorial  that  our  life  is  not  all  here,  than 
a  grief  that  weighs  upon  our  hearts. 

Sometimes,  leaving  little  Carry  and  Jamie  to 
their  play,  we  wander  at  twilight  to  the  willow- 
tree  beneath  which  our  drowned  boy  sleeps 
calmly  for  the  Great  Awaking.  It  is  a  Sun- 
day in  the  week-day  of  our  life  to  linger  by 
the  little  grave, — to  hang  flowers  upon  the 
head-stone,  and  to  breathe  a  prayer  that  our 
little  Paul  may  sleep  well  in  the  arms  of  Him 
who  loveth  children. 

And  her  heart,  and  my  heart,  knit  together 
by  sorrow  as  they  had  been  knit  by  joy, — a  sil- 
ver thread  mingled  with  the  gold, — follow  the 
dead  one  to  the  Land  that  is  before  us,  until 
at  last  we  come  to  reckon  the  boy  as  living  in 
the  new  home  which,  when  this  is  old,  shall  be 
ours  also.  And  my  spirit,  speaking  to  his 
spirit  in  the  evening  watches,  seems  to  say 
joyfully, — so  joyfully  that  the  tears  half  choke 

296 


EVENING 

the  utterance, — "Paul,   my  boy,   we  will  be 
there!" 

And  the  mother,  turning  her  face  to  mine, 
so  that  I  see  the  moisture  in  her  eye,  and  catch 
its  heavenly  look,  whispers  softly, — so  softly 
that  an  angel  might  have  said  it, — "Yes,  dear, 
we  will  be  THERE  !" 

The  night  had  now  come,  and  my  day  under 
the  oaks  was  ended.  But  a  crimson  belt  yet 
lingered  over  the  horizon,  though  the  stars 
were  out. 

A  line  of  shaggy  mist  lay  along  the  surface 
of  the  brook.  I  took  my  gun  from  beside  the 
tree,  and  my  shot-pouch  from  its  limb,  and 
whistling  for  Carlo, — as  if  it  had  been  Tray, — 
I  strolled  over  the  bridge,  and  down  the  lane, 
to  the  old  house  under  the  elms. 

I  dreamed  pleasant  dreams  that  night; — for 
I  dreamed  that  my  Reverie  was  real. 


297 


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UNIVERSITY  of  CALIFORNIA 

AT 

LOS  ANGELES 
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PS 

2400  Mitchell 
A2  Works  . 


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MAY  26  19515 


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